


Night Fire - The Last Ember

by cynical21



Category: Brokeback Mountain (2005), Brokeback Mountain - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 119,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2142348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical21/pseuds/cynical21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to The Greatest Love - the rest of the story</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Brokeback Mountain and its beautiful heroes are the exclusive creation of the inimitable Annie Proulx, brought to life on screen by Ang Lee's genius, a host of gifted screenwriters - and two brilliant young actors who will forever define Jack Twist and Ennis Del Mar in the hearts of those who fell in love with them in the darkness of hundreds of movie theaters around the world. This story is written as a form of homage to those individuals. No copyright infringement is intended and no profits generated.

_Jack, in his dark camp, saw Ennis as night fire, a red spark on the huge black mass of mountain._  
  
\--- Brokeback Mountain --- Annie Proulx  
  
  
The liquid amber glow of the afternoon sun - unseasonably bright, even for springtime in Houston - worked its way through the slats of vertical blinds and painted stripes of brilliance across my mother's face, sparking glints of platinum in the drift of glossy tresses that flowed across her pillow like water. I was struck with the realization that it mattered not in the least that the golden mane was attached to an elasticized skullcap covering the silky fringe that was all that was left of her own hair - one of many sacrificial offerings made in supplication to the gods of medical science, in pursuit of that most elusive of all blessings - a cure for cancer. The immaculately groomed coiffure was still a fundamental trait of Lureen Newsome Twist, and I was suddenly caught up in a scrap of memory so vivid and real that it caused my breath to catch in my throat.  
  
_It was the same smile on the same face that I saw every time I preened in front of my mirror, during my preening, teen-aged years; the same, but not quite. His embodied a bit more mischief, emphasized by a bit more sparkle in eyes just slightly bluer, formed by lips that curved upwards just a bit more at the outer corners, accented by dimples just that little bit deeper, framed by a dark swirl of hair just slightly coarser and straighter and harder to control. On that March day in 1995, it had been twelve years since I'd seen it last, yet it remained as fresh and real to me as the sunlight on my mother's face. In that treasured memory, we had been goofing off in the back yard, tossing a football around, and tackling each other to indulge in the kind of father-son horseplay that has come to be known, in recent years, as male bonding. Back then, though, it was just my dad, being my dad. We came in together, dusty and sweaty and fighting over who would get the only cold Coke in the fridge (a fight he won, like always, before changing his mind and handing it over as he grabbed a bottle of Bud instead) and Mama came rushing through on her way out to meet friends for lunch and shopping, wrinkling her nose to let us know that we were stinking up her newly remodeled kitchen, with its hand-painted ceramic tiles and polished copper accents, and the kind of pure, bright colors that she would love throughout her life._  
  
_She was wearing a pretty pink dress that swirled around her knees when she walked, and I thought she looked beautiful, and I said so, blurting out something about her being the prettiest mama in all of Childress. And my dad's smile went all soft and sweet when her cheeks flushed rosy red. "How's my hair?" she asked, smoothing a lock back from her face._  
  
_"Perfect," said I._  
  
_"Blonde," said Daddy, with a wink._  
  
_She took my face in her hands and kissed my cheek as she replied, "My Prince Charming."_  
  
_Then she kissed my dad - a quick peck on the lips - and continued, "And the frog I had to kiss to get him. I don't know why I put up with you"_  
  
_Daddy grinned. "'Cause you'd be bored t' tears without me."_  
  
_She smiled, cupped his face with a gentle hand, and nodded._  
  
Twelve years, and no detail of his smile or his face had ever faded. I doubt now that it ever will.  
  
It was cool in my mother's room, the faint whisper of the air conditioner barely audible against the soft strains of music issuing from the tiny tape deck perched among the clutter of objects arranged on the skirted bedside table. The huge bulk of the hospital bed, the plethora of IV tubes and pumps and medical monitors, and the ubiquitous, unavoidable odor of antiseptics and disinfectant made it painfully obvious that this was a hospital room, but even within the confines of a place like the M. D. Anderson Medical Center, the world-renowned Texas Mecca for cancer treatment, money - and the right name - still talked, still bought the privileges of rank. The bed might be a clunky, awkwardly-constructed monstrosity, an unavoidable necessity for a functional hospital device, but the sheets that covered it were of fine, Egyptian cotton, and the coverlet that warmed her thin body was a bright comforter bearing a designer label. The lamp on the bedside table was a Victorian-style with a hand-blown glass shade, and the pool of radiance it poured out fell on a table cover of Battenburg lace. Though it was unmistakably a hospital room, it was certainly not the kind that most people would recognize.  
  
I suppose many people might have thought it strange that I would recognize the finer details of the setting, given my undeniable identity as a Texas boy, born and bred, who still wore cowboy boots and Stetson hats and Levis, but those could only be people who had never known my mother. As Lureen Twist's only offspring, I had been force-fed such tidbits of information from the first days of my life, although I was always careful to maintain an air of ignorance in areas where such knowledge would have been considered inappropriate or girly.  
  
My father used to laugh at me about that, at those times when he wasn't laughing with me over the very same thing. I always believed that - deep down - he was half-way tickled to have a son who had been brought up to know which fork to use and the purpose for finger bowls and the proper way to hold chopsticks, even though he never wasted his time in trying to learn such things himself.  
  
My mother appeared to be sleeping, and I decided not to wake her as I knew that her moments of serenity were growing steadily more infrequent. Instead, I set my briefcase aside and settled into an overstuffed armchair, upholstered with the same bright pastel print fabric that had been fashioned into Roman shades for the broad expanse of windows, and smiled as I recognized the lyrics of the song rising from the tape deck.  
  
_"And we both played along_  
_Love is easy on the young,_  
_Life was together._  
_As the world fades away_  
_Into yesterday,_  
_I'm losing you forever."_ *  
  
My dad always claimed that my mother's fondness for Barbra Streisand was the "love of one diva for another", and she never bothered to argue the point.  
  
His taste was simpler, of course - Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, the Eagles. But there was one song that the incredibly gifted Ms. Streisand sang that always seemed to catch him unawares and cause him to go very still, as if lost in thought, and I always wondered what kind of "misty, water-colored memories" it triggered for him. It would be a very long time before I realized that I had it all wrong, that there was nothing "misty" or "water-colored" about it.  
  
I had resigned myself to never knowing what it was he saw when the lady sang about _The Way We Were*_.  
  
Of course, back then, I thought I knew it all already - had it all figured out.  
  
I was wrong.  
  
I took advantage of the quiet moments to study Mama's face - to note the things that had changed so radically, as well as the things that never would.  
  
She had battled long and hard against the disease that consumed her, but pancreatic cancer had proven to be a formidable opponent. She had won an occasional skirmish, but the war was close to its end, and we all knew it.  
  
She was the last of the Newsomes. Her father, L. D., had tried to force the issue after the death of my dad. He had threatened and cajoled and thundered and - finally - begged, but my mama was as much a Newsome as he was and just as tough if not tougher, and remained adamant. Her name would remain Lureen Newsome Twist, and her son would continue to carry the name of his father.  
  
John Robert Twist, I had been christened, and John Robert Twist, I would remain.  
  
L. D. never forgave her, but, by that time, he had no leverage to use against her. He had spent his entire life playing the Big Dog - swaggering and posturing, throwing his weight around and enjoying his connections in the Good-Old-Boys' network, living high on the family fortune and managing, in the process, to squander a hefty percentage of the estate left to him by his own father, a canny old merchant who'd opened a tiny feed and seed store back in the early years of the Great Depression, and turned it into a multi-million dollar farm machinery dealership. In the twenty-eight years between the date of his father's death, and the occasion of his own retirement, forced on him by a heart condition brought on by a profligate lifestyle, L. D. had conducted the family business in such a slipshod manner that the net worth of Newsome Farm Equipment had declined by almost a third of its value. Luckily, from the standpoint of those who depended on the business for their livelihood - including me - he'd left a worthy successor behind him.  
  
At the end of her first eighteen months as president of the company, my mother had recouped all of her father's losses, and was well on her way to setting new sales and income records for the year. Only later would I learn just how clever and loyal my mother was and how firmly she believed in justice and payback.  
  
I sometimes wondered if her determination and my refusal to defy her and turn my back on the man I remembered with so much love might have contributed to L. D.'s death. He outlived my dad, but only by a couple of years.  
  
I wish I could say I mourned for him, but I would be lying if I did. I had no cause for grief.  
  
He was the first person who ever looked me straight in the eye and called my dad a faggot. He would not be the last, but - because he professed to love me, to claim me as his own - it never hurt quite so much coming from anyone else.  
  
I relaxed in the easy chair and let myself drift a little, going over old memories. After a while, there was a quiet knock at the door, and a delivery girl came in, bearing a huge basket of spring flowers - tulips and irises and snapdragons and orchids - and I took it from her and found a spot for it, on a shelf by the window. I opened the card, and smiled when I saw the name of the sender.  
  
Neither my mother nor my dad had ever had much use for politicians, both believing that they were mostly some combination of thieves, scoundrels, or power-hungry despots, and the recently elected governor of the great state of Texas was no exception to that rule, according to my mother. No flower arrangement, no matter how lush and expensive, was going to convince her to change her mind, and I figured she'd have a few choice words to say on the subject when she woke up.  
  
I went back to my chair and spent some time just studying her face.  
  
Her skin, always fine-pored and soft, was pale as porcelain in the wake of her illness, and her bones were sharp beneath it. Eyes, still huge and dark-lashed, were sunken and circled with bruised flesh. Make-up was still expertly applied, of course, but no amount of skill could make the blush appear natural or the lipstick coating lips no longer full and lush anything less than garish, even though her favorite crimsons had long-since given way to soft mauves and pale corals to appear less drastic against skin now faded to the luster of pearls. Perfectly manicured nails were tipped with platinum frost, but the fingers they adorned were claw-like and skeletal.  
  
She was skin and bones and failing fast, but she still wore a creamy nightdress of watered silk, accented with a bedjacket of fern green brocade. A gold cross encrusted with garnets hung on a chain of fine links around her throat, matching the pearl and garnet studs that adorned her ears, and a filigreed gold bangle, set with topaz and jade, graced her left wrist. I remembered the day of her 30th birthday, when Daddy brought it home hidden in a twist of foil looped around the neck of a bottle of champagne. In spite of everything that had happened, she was still the woman he had always believed her to be - the one he called his "Yellow Rose of Texas."  
  
Glinting in a stray sunbeam, a bottle of Joy perfume sat next to a crystal vase filled with scarlet roses and rubrium lilies on the narrow cabinet to the right of her bed, and beside it, a small china box contained the assortment of rings she could no longer wear since her fingers had shrunken so badly. Among them were the big marquise-shaped diamond she'd always loved - her gift to herself from Neiman-Marcus as a reward for the successful restoration of the fortunes of the Newsome-Twist family; a square-cut ruby that had belonged to her maternal grandmother, which she had inherited when Fayette Newsome had passed on, just six months after L. D. died, and the wedding ring set that she had worn since the day she and my dad had gotten married - a set that was neither gaudy nor impressive nor terribly expensive. In the past, I had occasionally wondered why she'd never traded it in on a newer, flashier model that would have been more in keeping with her style and tastes. But I didn't wonder any more. That set was symbolic for her; it represented my father, and she had never had any desire to change it.  
  
It would go with her to her grave; I would make certain of that.  
  
I watched her until the afternoon light began to fade and, in the encroaching shadows, noticed the faint bluish tinge around her mouth, as I realized that occasional tremors touched her, even in her sleep. My strong, vibrant mother had been reduced to something frail and fragile, and I hated the disease that was eating away at her, just as I hated what life had done to her. Sometimes, in moments of weakness and despair, I even resented my father, for not being able to be what she had needed.  
  
I actually hated him then, almost as much as I loved him.  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
As the sun sank toward the horizon, the air took on a hue like beaten gold - a color unique to the Texas landscape, I think. The only other place I ever saw the atmosphere take on that singular color, with the approach of sunset - a transparent glow like wild honey - was on the Serengeti Plain, when I'd taken a trip to Kenya after my graduation from UT. I stood and walked to the window and looked out toward the West, where elongated strips of cloud glowed burnt orange and neon rose, and I tried not to think much beyond the moment, to concentrate only on the immediacy of the dying day.  
  
The snarl of the city's traffic was just as intimidating, just as confusing, as always, but it seemed remote; though apparently endless rows of headlights fell on serpentine streets, it was a choreography of motion occurring in silence. No sound penetrated the sanctuary of my mother's room - not until a buxom nurse in ugly dark red scrubs came bustling through the door, with her charts and her instruments and her stethoscope and her squeaky shoes, and set about making notes of readings from banks of monitors.  
  
Mama jerked and tried to sit up in response to the commotion, but I reached her before she managed to dislodge any of the tubes or needles affixed to her body. Her eyes were murky and shadowed, and her voice, when she tried to speak, was only a breath.  
  
"Jack?" Though it was only a whisper, I could hear the note of uncertainty and confusion, and the tiny nuance of hope. "You left me, Jack. Why did you . . ."  
  
"Shhh, Mama," I said gently. "It's me. It's Bobby."  
  
For a moment, I thought she might refuse to hear me. Might refuse to believe. But she didn't. Lureen Twist didn't deal in self delusion, not even when her bloodstream was pumped full of noxious, mind-blowing chemicals.  
  
She dredged up a smile as her eyes cleared, and she touched my face with trembling fingers. "So beautiful," she said. "Ya know what? I never told him that, Bobby. Back then, ya didn't say that to a man cause ya didn't want a insult him. But he was. Most beautiful man I ever saw. Think that's why I married him."  
  
I used my thumb to wipe away a spot of blood at the corner of her mouth, careful to make sure she wouldn't notice. "Together," I answered softly, "you were breathtaking."  
  
Her eyes were suddenly filled with a faint glow of tenderness. "You bet we were."  
  
"Ms. Twist," said the nurse, stepping forward to check IV lines and electrode connections, "how we doing?"  
  
Mama rolled her eyes. "I'm sure, Nurse Cratchett, that _you're_ doing fine. I, however, am not so great."  
  
"Name's Rodman," said the nurse stolidly, refusing to take the bait. "Can I get you something?"  
  
"How about a margarita?"  
  
The heavyset woman grinned. "Can't help you there, Honey. Are you in pain?"  
  
Mama mumbled something, once more rolling her eyes, and the nurse adjusted a control on her IV pump before making more notes on her chart and leaving the room.  
  
"Idiot." Pain and discomfort and frustration had done nothing to improve my mother's disposition.  
  
"They're trying, Mama," I replied. "They want to help you, but . . . "  
  
She turned to look at me, and I saw the certainty in her eyes. "But there's only so much they can do."  
  
I wanted to argue, to give her hope. But I couldn't find the words. I couldn't claim that I'd never lied to her; that would have been a real whopper. I'd done my share of fibbing to my parents, covering up my teen-aged stunts, fast-talking my way out of trouble, feigning innocence in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. But I'd never been able to lie to either one of them about something really important, something that mattered.  
  
"It's all right, Bobby," she sighed. "I don't expect you to wave a magic wand, and make it right. And I don't expect you to reassure me."  
  
I took her hand and raised it to my lips.  
  
"God! I want a cigarette," she said suddenly.  
  
I couldn't quite swallow my grin. "You're incorrigible."  
  
"Always was," she retorted. "Too late to change now. Help me up, Bobby. I want to sit up so I can look out the window and see the world."  
  
I found the bed controls and made the adjustment, then propped fresh pillows behind her. She did indeed want to look out at the world, but only after she'd checked her hair and make-up in the small silver mirror she retrieved from the bedside table. She noticed my quick smile, and gave me that 'look' - the one that every mother reserves for a son's moments of insolence.  
  
She asked for a glass of ice water, which I fetched, and she sat for a while looking out into the growing darkness, and I took advantage of her quiet introspection to place a call to Childress, to speak to my fiancé.  
  
"How is she?" asked my darling Chelsea - she of the laughing eyes and the delicate heart-shaped face and the sweet, compassionate disposition.  
  
"Tell her I'm hanging in there," Mama said sharply, "and that she needs to drive over here soon. I have some things to tell her."  
  
Chelsea chuckled. "She's still incorrigible."  
  
"And proud of it," I answered.  
  
"I'll come tomorrow," she said softly. "I think that's a conversation I don't want to miss."  
  
"Shit!" I muttered, barely audible. I was imagining all sorts of information that my mother might feel compelled to pass on to my wife-to-be.  
  
Chelsea laughed and said good-bye.  
  
As I hung up the phone, I felt Mama turn to look at me.  
  
"It's time, Bobby," she said. "Got some things I need t' say t' you, and I'm thinkin' it's best not t' put it off any more."  
  
"Got plenty of time," I replied, but I couldn't quite manage to meet her eyes.  
  
To my surprise, she laughed softly. "You are definitely your father's son, no doubt about that. He couldn't lie worth a shit either." She paused for a minute, waiting until I looked up. "You're so much like him, Bobby, but I hope life is kinder to you."  
  
"He had a good life, Mama," I said quickly. "Too short, but good." I had never known how much my mother knew about my father's secrets, and I realized then that I really didn't want to know. And I certainly didn't want to have to provide answers, if she had questions.  
  
But she wasn't really looking at me when she continued. "In some ways he did." She sighed again, before once more looking up to meet my eyes. "I loved your daddy, Bobby, and I truly believe that he loved me too. But . . ."  
  
I waited for her to go on, but she seemed to be having trouble finding the right words. "But what?"  
  
"But something happened to him. I think it happened even before I met him. Something . . . something broke his heart, Bobby, and I don't think he ever got over it. Might have had something to do with the bastard who fathered him, but I never knew for sure. I did the best I could to be what he wanted - what he needed - and sometimes I think I did OK by him. But I know one thing, for certain. Even though I'm pretty sure he never had much interest in being a daddy - not in the beginning anyway - I know that he fell in love with you from the very first moment he saw you. Your daddy loved you, Bobby; you need t' remember that."  
  
"I know he did, Mama," I said gently, taking her hands in mine.  
  
"He was a good father t' ya, an' I know you know, even if ya never mentioned it, that it was Jack made sure ya got what ya needed to get ya through school. I was always too busy workin' an' . . ."  
  
"Just stop right there," I interrupted, and swallowed a smile when I noticed the look of annoyance that touched her features. "You were taking care of business, and so was he. It took both of you to raise me."  
  
"Do you remember that last day?" she asked, eyes once more shadowed and opaque. "That last mornin', before he . . . ."  
  
"I remember," I said quickly. "He was going to see a man about a horse, for me. If he'd gone somewhere else, maybe he . . . "  
  
She lifted her hand and placed her fingers over my mouth. "Now you stop that," she commanded, showing a spark of the spirit that still existed within her. "It sure as hell wasn't your fault. It would a happened anyway."  
  
I closed my eyes and offered a silent prayer of thanks that she really didn't know how right she was.  
  
We were both quiet for a time, lost in memory. "There was somethin'," she said finally "botherin' him. Somethin' he never talked about. He'd been so quiet the last few months before he died. I always wondered if he might a felt it comin'."  
  
I stood then and walked to the window, where full night had fallen, but what I was seeing in my mind's eye was far different from what lay beyond the glass. "He smiled at me when he was getting in his truck, and said that he was going to find me the best damned horse in the state of Texas. Then he reached over and messed up my hair - like he always did - and said, 'Gonna make a cowboy out a you yet, Li'l Buddy.' Then he drove away."  
  
Her smile was gentle. "Not such a bad moment t' have for your last memory of him, is it?"  
  
I didn't offer up an answer, for fear of betraying something of the raw emotion rising within me. There were still some things I was not prepared to share, could not share, with her.  
  
"There's somethin' . . ." She paused, and drew a deep breath, and I heard the rattle in her chest and felt a moment of pure panic. "There's somethin' I need ya t' do, Bobby. For him and for me. Somethin' that he wanted us t' do. An' I managed t' convince myself that it didn't really matter. He was dead, after all, and he'd never know anyway." Once more, that deep, painful breath. "But somehow, it does matter. An' it's not somethin' I can still manage t' do for him, so it's gonna have t' be you."  
  
A strange stillness seemed to settle over me then, as if I knew - somehow - that what she wanted from me was important; that it mattered, although I would never fully understand why.  
  
"There's a place up in Wyoming," she said softly, barely audible. "A mountain. A place your father chose as his final resting place. He asked fer his ashes t' be scattered there, but no one ever tried to carry out his wishes. I never understood why it was special t' him, but I see now that it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that it's what he wanted."  
  
I turned to look at her and was surprised to see a note of desperation in her expression. Somehow, with all that she had endured, all that had spun out of her control, she had fixated on this one thing - this one small sin of omission that was still within her power to rectify. "I want you to promise me that you'll see to it," she continued. "I want t' give 'im what he asked for."  
  
It never occurred to me to object. When your mother looks up at you with death in her eyes, and asks you for one last favor, you'd have to be the world's biggest dickhead to refuse, and while there might be a few people eager to hang that title on me, I wasn't yet ready to claim it for myself. "Where is this mountain?"  
  
She shook her head. "I'm not exactly sure, Bobby. I think it was called Buckback Mountain, or somethin' like that. I don't know how t' find it, but I do know someone who can."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Jack's old fishin' buddy. His name was Ernest Delmer."  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * *

* _The Love Inside_ \- Wally Fraser, Mark Birch

 _The Way We Were_ \- Alan Bergman, Marilyn Bergman, Marvin Hamlisch

TBC

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
  
  
_You go no more on your exultant feet  
Up paths that only mist and morning knew,  
Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat  
Of a bird's wings too high in air to view -   
But you were something more than young and sweet  
And fair - and the long year remembers you.  
_  
Sonnet III - Edna St. Vincent Millay  
  
  
She died on the 14th of May - Mother's Day - 1995, and that hurt so much I could barely stand it. And we buried her three days later. In the rain - and that hurt even more. And from that day to this, I've never quite figured out which was hardest: knowing that the yellow roses I laid upon her grave - full, golden blossoms identical to the ones I had bought for her every year for that special occasion, continuing a tradition begun by my father - would never again cause her face to light up with joy the way it always did when I gave them to her. Or leaving her there in the rain, with thunder crashing around us and the wind howling like a wild thing.  
  
It took every ounce of strength I had to turn and walk away.  
  
It was a terrible day, and the horror of it was compounded by the crowds that turned out for her funeral, and the television cameras that hovered around, trailing behind the entourage of the governor of Texas as he prepared to take advantage of the moment to set up one of those photo-ops that politicians love so well. Luckily, his sweet-faced little wife, undoubtedly calling upon wisdom gleaned from her years of experience as a school teacher, recognized how inappropriate such behavior would be, and managed, despite her demure appearance, to overrule his determination to monopolize the moment and steer him away from me after the briefest murmur of condolences.  
  
Of course, it could also be that she spied the look on my fiancé's face and figured - rightly - that Chelsea, in protective mode, would have pounced on the clueless politician with all the fury and indignation of a mama bear defending her cub, if he'd intruded too deeply on my grief.  
  
Still, if the Honorable Mr. Bush had anticipated a chance to upstage the star attraction, he was doomed to disappointment; no one ever upstaged my mother. Living or dead, she was still a formidable presence, and very much the star of the occasion, even though, as per her instructions, there was no viewing of her body. She was vain enough (and canny enough) to understand that the crowds who came to show their respects, though sincere enough in their sympathy, would also be consumed with a desire to see how disease had brought down the beautiful and powerful Lureen Newsome Twist, and she had no intention of indulging their curiosity.  
  
The coffin was closed to the public. No one except me, Chelsea, and Rosita - the woman who had been her maid, helpmate, personal assistant, housekeeper, and confidante for most of Mama's life - was allowed to look down upon her face one last time before she was sealed away from prying eyes. Instead of being allowed to focus their attention on her emaciated features and experience just a wee trace of satisfaction over the inevitability of the corruption of all flesh, including that of the rich and famous, the mourners were treated to a display of a bright and lovely portrait in oils, painted when she was at the height of her beauty, in which the smile she wore was just a tiny bit smug, just slightly condescending, as if she had known even then that she would one day be in this position and still be holding the upper hand.  
  
When it was over - when the last hand had been shaken, the last guest escorted to the door after the last tray of canapés had been served and the last round of drinks dispensed, and the last limo driven off into the storm - Rosita had directed the hired servants in a final clean-up that quickly set the house in order, before she wrapped me up in a bear hug and planted kisses on both cheeks, then climbed into Chelsea's car to be driven back to her little cottage on the outskirts of Childress.  
  
With love and gratitude and a weariness unlike any I'd ever experienced before, I kissed my fiancé good night.  
  
And I was - finally - alone, in the house that was the only home I'd ever known. The one in which I had rarely ever been alone before my mother fell ill. The home of the Twist family - Jack, Lureen, and Bobby. And now, only Bobby.  
  
In a few weeks, if we decided to go through with the wedding as planned, after all the turmoil of recent months, it would once again be the home of the Twist family - Bobby and Chelsea. But for that moment, there was only me and Tinker, the last in a long line of Shetland sheepdogs descended from one given to my dad when he was just a teen-ager himself: Isabelle, who had been his most faithful and loyal companion for almost fourteen years.  
  
We buried Isabelle together, Daddy and I, just a few days before I turned ten. It was the only time I ever saw him cry.   
  
Exhaustion fell on me like a pall, and I wondered if I could drag myself upstairs to collapse in my bed - the very same bed I had slept in since my sixth birthday, when my daddy had insisted that I was too old to sleep in a toddler bed for even one more day. Or maybe, I thought, I'd just sprawl out on the cushy sofa in the den. It hardly mattered, I reasoned, since there would be no one to object, no matter where I slept - or how. I almost smiled to realize that I could, if I wanted, peel off the dress shirt and slacks that I still wore, having discarded jacket and tie long before, and walk around in my boxers, offending no one. Tinker, following me around the house and watching me with soft, dewy eyes, certainly wouldn't care.  
  
I debated the possibility, as I poured myself a serving of brandy. I could just strip and crash.  
  
In the end, I did neither, reasoning that it was a little too early to start disregarding Lureen's Laws - the ones I'd lived by all my life. Mostly.  
  
Instead, I decided to spend a little time in my office, checking messages, taking stock. Thinking.  
  
When I opened the door into the small study that had served as my father's sanctuary before his death, which I'd converted to a home office for myself several years later, the blinking light of the answering machine was strobing bright and fast, and I knew without looking that it was full to capacity. More than anything, I wanted to ignore it, to let the world spiral down into the stillness of midnight with no help from me, while I licked my wounds and engaged in a well-deserved orgy of self pity. But, in the end, I figured I ought to at least check to be sure there were no urgent messages among the glut of formal condolence calls from business associates and acquaintances whose names were often found in the society pages of various Texas newspapers.  
  
So I dropped into the big, cushy leather chair that my dad had always loved, and spent a moment striving for focus, while Tinker assumed his customary position in front of the fireplace, on a faded old throw rug that had seen better days. Automatically, without even thinking about it, I reached over and retrieved a thick, hard-cover book from the corner of the desk, its dark, glossy dust jacket, featuring the silhouette of a horse and rider against a spectacular sunset, providing a perfect contrast for the title, etched in letters of crimson and gold.  
  
_Under a Single Star._  
  
I turned it over and looked down at the author's photograph on the back cover, and realized all over again that, if I squinted just a little, it could easily appear to be Jack Twist's eyes looking back up at me, instead of my own; I really was his spitting image . . . almost.   
  
I opened the book and turned to the dedication page.  
_  
To Jack, for never giving up until he found the right key  
  
And  
  
To Lucia - the right key.  
_  
It seemed unavoidable that it should be a time for remembrance, and I was suddenly much too weary to resist the impulse, as the sound of rain on the roof grew to a steady roar and thunder rolled in the distance. I rubbed my thumb over the raised lettering on the cover of my book - comforted by the texture of it - and let my eyes rest for a moment on the engagement photograph of me and my bride-to-be. My lovely Chelsea, with ash-blonde hair that curled around her face and rain gray eyes, filled with warmth and promise and a sweet zest for life.  
  
She had become my rock and my inspiration, because I loved her; because she was more than worthy of being loved; and because - maybe most of all - she had a unique ability to believe in me and to make me believe in myself, which made her a member of a ridiculously exclusive club.  
  
I let my eyes drift closed for a moment, but I didn't really need to look to see the picture that was enclosed in a tooled leather frame on the other corner of my desk. It had been sitting in that same place for as long as I could remember - the crystal image of Jack and Lureen Twist on the day of their wedding.  
  
I opened my eyes and stared for a while, taking it all in as if I'd never really seen it before, and was instantly caught up in the same thought that always struck me when I glanced at that photo. Dear God, how young they were! Younger by a good six years than I was on that stormy night. Young and - oh, yes, my mother was so right - incredibly, almost painfully beautiful. Was it all in my imagination that I thought I saw something in my father's eyes even then, even on that day when he was like the handsome prince in the ultimate fairy tale? Was there really a nuance of the sadness that would come to consume him in later years, or was it only that I saw what I expected to see, projecting all that I had learned?  
  
I don't know; I never knew, and I doubt that I ever will.  
  
And that leads to another question: did he really believe in me so completely, or was it only that he wanted so desperately to find a way to let _me_ believe in me, in a way that he never found for himself? I thought about the man he had been - bright and beautiful, bold and sharp and filled with sass and a keen understanding of the people around him - and I knew that, beneath all the bravado and the easy grin, he had borne bruises and wounds that no one had ever been allowed to see.   
  
I grieved when my daddy died; I grieved even more when I found out how he'd lived.  
  
I turned and looked at the arrangement of photographs on the wall behind my desk - my own personal Wall of Heroes.   
  
To the left, Lucia Perez - she who was dubbed "Santa Lucia" by an exultant Jack Twist, when he'd discovered that he had finally found the right person to rescue me from the prison that my learning disability had built around me. I couldn't remember how many tutors had come and gone in the years while I struggled through elementary school and the first years of junior high - at least a dozen. None of them had done me any good at all. I had come to hate school, to hate reading and everything associated with it, to hate the whole educational process and system. And, beneath it all, I had come to hate myself and my stupidity.  
  
Mama, of course, had never allowed herself to consider the possibility that I was stupid; she insisted - year after year - that I was just lazy and too much into "boy foolishness"; that I'd grow out of it eventually.  
  
But Daddy knew I was in trouble; knew and tried to fight my battles for me. He developed a reputation as a complete pain in the ass with all my teachers, because he always complained over the lack of assistance available for kids with 'special needs'; that's the term they used for students with learning deficiencies back then. Eventually, he'd realized that pestering the school or the teachers was pointless, and he'd set out to get help for me from other resources. It took him over five years to find Lucia, and I'm pretty sure he had almost given up hope by that time.  
  
She was truly a miracle. A Cuban refugee, she had been a highly-skilled, much-in-demand educator in a school in Havana for the rich and privileged. Then she had been forced to flee from the Communist regime, and wound up in Miami, working with the children of the indigent, specializing in helping those who lacked either the skills or the maturity to function within the framework of the public school system. She had come to Childress as a widow, when her daughter married a local rancher, and, being by that time beyond her prime, decided to limit her interaction with students to a few who might be in need of her special abilities.  
  
Lucia came to me when I was in the eighth grade, and it is no exaggeration to claim that she saved my life. It was only a few months after she became a part of my life that my father died, and, without her, I doubt I would have found a way to endure it. She supported me and held me and let me weep for him, as she helped me preserve his memory. Strangely, although she only knew him for a short time, she seemed to know more about him - about the man beneath the surface - than all the people who had supposedly known him for years. The two of them would occasionally sit out on the patio at night, after my lessons were concluded, drinking dark, Mexican beer, and talking about me, about the things she missed in Cuba and the life she'd had there, about Wyoming and his memories of it, and any of a thousand other things. Sometimes, if he drank enough, he'd burst out into the song, _Santa Lucia_ , and they'd laugh together. They got to be good friends in a short period of time, and when he was gone, I came to believe that Lucia had sensed something within him that no one else ever saw, something that she encouraged me to see, once he was gone.  
  
On the night of his memorial service, once his battered, broken body had been reduced to ashes, she sat with me as I cried. She did not offer false comfort or solace - only truth. "Your daddy had a gentle heart, Bobby. A sweet noble spirit. He loved you dearly." Her voice was tender when she said that. Then she reached out and touched my face before going on. "But he was a very lonely man. Perhaps now, he will find peace."  
  
That was the first time she saved my life, by standing beside me and guiding me through the pain. My mother would have tried to help me, I think, but she was going through her own trauma, mourning the loss of what she had - and what she had never had.   
  
Over the years, Lucia would save me in more ways than one, and, in the end, she gave me my life. She taught me to love to read, and the desire to write followed that love as inevitably as dawn follows the night.   
  
She was my guardian angel, the legacy my father left me. His final gift.   
  
She made it possible for me to turn my education around, to excel in my remaining years of high school, and to function well enough to earn a bachelor's degree in Finance at UT, with a minor in English.   
  
She never quite understood my choices for courses of study, and I never tried to explain it. She was, after all, a good Christian woman, and she would not have approved of the agenda I had set for myself. In my mind, I called it justice, but I had no doubt that she would have called it something else - something, perhaps, a little more accurate, from a religious standpoint. From my standpoint, however, as a true son of Texas, vengeance and justice were two sides of the same coin. In truth, I had no great love for the world of finance or banking or business, but there was no other choice if I had any chance of achieving the goals I'd set for myself as a raw teen-ager, bloody and reeling from wounds that I'd suffered in silence, wounds that no one else could see, standing alone against the tide of vicious hatred and ugly truth.  
  
Lucia's smile was sweet and gentle as I gazed at her face, and I remembered the day she died - a glorious day in autumn, with leaves burning bright against the blue sky in shades of crimson and amber. For a time, it was almost as if I'd lost my father all over again, so closely was she connected to him in my mind.  
  
My eyes drifted to the next photograph on the wall, and I smiled as I always did when I looked at it. It was my favorite picture of Jack Twist, taken by me with a dinky old Kodak camera, at a moment when he was unaware that I was anywhere around him.  
  
Sunset out at Roy Taylor's ranch, with Daddy leaning against the corral fence, just after we'd come back from a ride we'd taken to allow me to get to know the horse Mr. Malone had picked out for me, a beautiful Appaloosa filly with a gentle demeanor. My father was wearing the kind of dark denim shirt that he always favored, and Wrangler jeans, his favorite boots, and a dark Resistol hat, his forearms braced against the top fence rail with the light from the setting sun coming in from his left. His face was a profile against the bright colors of low clouds in the west, and he was looking up into the sky, a tiny smile touching his lips, eyes focused on something that he alone could see. I had taken the picture quickly, but backed away without saying anything, sensing that he was lost in thoughts he wouldn't want to share.  
  
For a long time, I wondered what he'd been thinking. In time, I would figure it out, but I had never spoken of it to anyone, and I had never shown him the photograph. Only after I was grown, when he'd been dead for many of years, did I enlarge the snapshot and frame it to hang above my desk. I always knew that it captured him perfectly, but I don't think I'd ever felt it quite so keenly as when my mother came striding into my office, moving with her customary smart grace, and went dead still when she saw it for the first time.  
  
For a few minutes, she simply stared, her hand going to her mouth, betraying her feelings only through the tremor of her fingers. Then she whispered a single word - "Jack" - before turning and moving away. She never mentioned it, never said anything about it to anyone, but sometimes after that, I would find her standing there in that room, just looking at that picture.   
  
To this day, I wonder if Daddy knew how much she really loved him, even though she'd never managed to express it very well.  
  
I turned away from the photographs and looked across at the painting hanging above the mantel - the one Daddy had brought back with him after one of his buying trips out to New Mexico. For a long time, I'd believed it was just something he came across that caught his fancy, and I definitely understood why it would have appealed to him. It appealed to me too.  
  
Washed in shades of gold and ochre, it pictured a tall, lean cowboy leading a horse uphill, silhouetted against a stormy sky. The image was viewed from an angle, looking up at the figure, as if the painter had been kneeling at the subject's feet, and the face was only partially visible, yet the artist had captured something of the cowboy's spirit. There was weariness in the lines of the body, and indigence betrayed in the torn and faded jeans, worn down boots, and battered hat. Yet there was a suggestion of youth as well, in curls that caressed the nape of the neck, in the slimness of waist and hips and the strength of the spine and sharpness of the jaw line. Detailed, intensely realistic, yet touched with a sense of romance.  
  
He had brought it home and hung it there above the fireplace, volunteering only that it reminded him of his home.  
  
I didn't find out until eight years after his death that it reminded him of much more than that. That happened when I broke down and allowed my mother to have his desk refinished, when it had gotten so badly scratched and worn that the only alternatives were to refinish or replace. In cleaning it out to allow the craftsmen to take it, I found a package of photographs taped to the underside of the bottom drawer - a package of photographs that contained the snapshot that was the original model for the painting.   
  
By that time, I knew the truth, and I understood that I had found another piece of the puzzle of my father's life, but I still had no name to hang on it.  
  
But that had not prevented me from coming up with a perfectly suitable name for the cowboy in the portrait.  
  
For me, no matter what I might learn in the future, he would always be Rusty Delcambre - the heroic protagonist of my historical novel about the birth of the Republic of Texas. The portrait served as my inspiration, my touchstone, my spirit guide.  
  
And now my mother had provided a name. A real name, not just a fictional one.  
  
Ernest Delmer.  
  
I spoke it aloud, savoring the feel of it, the sound of it, and wondered why it didn't feel quite right.   
  
"Ernest Delmer. The man my father loved."  
  
And that was definitely something I'd never said before.  
  
Ernest Delmer - a man I had to find. A man to whom I owed a debt.  
  
A couple of weeks after Mama's declaration, I had set the wheels in motion to try to find him, hiring a private investigator out of Denver to start the search. So far, there'd been no results, but I was not about to give up the chase.   
  
I had made a promise to my mother that I intended to keep; beyond that, I wanted to fulfill my father's only wish - to take his ashes up to that mountain and scatter them there, and Delmer was the key to finding that special place.  
  
But there was one more thing I needed to do. One thing that I needed to share with that man - the one thing that I'd never shared with anyone before.  
  
My mother had spoken of my last memory of my Daddy, as he drove away from the house for the last time, and she had remarked that it was a pretty good memory for me to have. She was right; it was a good memory.  But she was also wrong. It was not my last memory of him.  
  
That memory - the last one I had of my father - was the memory I had always known I was not supposed to have; it was a memory that I was supposed to dismiss as a dream, or a hallucination, or the specter of a panicked mind, just as anyone I might have mentioned it to would have done.  
  
But somehow it didn't work that way. Somehow, something had slipped out of the grasp of shadows in the sub-conscious mind and into the light of hard certainty  
  
No matter how it happened or how it wasn't supposed to happen, I had always known the truth - always known that my father had saved my life one last time by standing before me and turning me away from the darkness. I knew then, just as I'd known when I was eighteen years old, just as I know now, that my last memory of my father had happened when death stalked me and tossed me into a ditch beside a Texas highway, four years after he died. I saw him then and heard his voice - and knew that it was real.  
  
And I knew one more thing: that there was only one person in the world to whom I needed to speak of that memory, one person who needed to hear it.  
  
So all I had to do was find him.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 TBC

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Chapter three  
  
_. . . whiteness was waiting  
when the rain returned  
to sadly drum  
against the window,  
then to dance with unmeasured fury  
over my heart and over the roof,  
reclaiming  
its place,  
asking me for a cup  
to fill once more with needles,  
with transparent time,  
with tears.  
_  
_It rains . . . The Sea and the Bells_ \-- Pablo Neruda  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
  
_He had not aged at all. It was the first thought in my mind as I knelt there in that place which was not a real place and looked up at him. And then I realized that not only had he not aged; he actually looked younger. Standing a bit taller, with fewer wrinkles fanning out from his eyes, a bit leaner and lighter on his feet.  
  
Then I remembered what I had learned about him, and could not help but think of the ugly phrase "light in the loafers", and knew for a fact that whoever the malicious person might have been who coined that nasty term, he had never met my father.  
  
Even then, four years past the day when all that he had been was reduced to a handful of ashes, he was still solid, still vital and intense, still young - except for something in his eyes, something that had been old even when he _ was _young.  
  
Still Jack Twist.  
  
And for a few precious moments, he was back in my universe - although I sensed immediately that the truth was far more elemental. The truth was that _ he _wasn't in_ my _universe; I was in his, and even though some part of me knew, on a visceral level, what that meant, I wanted only to stay with him.  
  
I think I would have stayed with him, but he wouldn't allow it.  
  
"Daddy?"  
  
The quiver in my voice was nothing compared to the quaking in my heart, as some part of me was conscious of the scene behind me - of my broken body sprawled out in a ditch as my lifeblood drained away. But somehow, it didn't seem important. Not nearly as important as the image before me. I don't think I'd ever admitted how much I had missed him. I'm not even sure I'd ever completely understood it myself.  
  
When he went to his knees, his eyes wide with shock, I wanted to run to him, to lift him up and feel the warmth of him, the reality of him. But I couldn't. I sensed that this strange place, with its pale, shadowless light and eerie silence, was a place in which I could initiate nothing. I could only respond to whatever he chose to do.  
  
"Daddy, is it really you?"  
  
He nodded, and I felt a sudden vertigo, as if I had fallen through Alice's famous looking glass, into a realm where reality had no meaning. I turned to look down on my own lifeless body, and - in my confusion - I mumbled a string of gibberish, uncertain of what I was saying, or what I should say, or how to find the answers I needed from him.  
  
But if I didn't know what to say, it was obvious that he _ did _know, and he wasted no time saying it.  
  
"Bobby, ya gotta go back."   
  
His voice was hoarse, as if it had been a long time since he'd used it.  
  
"Ya gotta go back - now. It ain't yer time."  
  
The compulsion to obey that voice was almost irresistible, but something in me wanted to resist, to rebel and defy, to make him feel my hurt and my need for him as he struggled to get to his feet.  
  
"But Daddy, I wanna see you. I wanna . . ."  
  
I fell silent when I read the incredible flare of pain in his eyes as he looked down at me.  
  
"Ya cain't, Bobby. Ya gotta go back now. There ain't no time."  
  
And, for a moment, it was like losing him for the first time, all over again, as I tried to tell myself that it wasn't that he didn't want me . . . was it?  
  
"Miss ya, Daddy."  
  
I don't think he meant to allow himself to touch me, or to allow me to see how much he wanted to touch me. But finally, when it was almost too late, he reached out and laid his hand on my shoulder, and I no longer doubted as I felt his love surround me even as he pushed me away.  
  
"Miss ya too, Li'l Buddy. Now go, before it's too late."  
  
He smiled at me, and he was gone, and I . . .  
  
_. . . was intensely grateful for the ringing of the telephone that awakened me from the dream that was just on the verge of becoming a nightmare. The memory of my father's final message to me was then - and remains today - unbearably precious to me, but the recollection of what came after that is one I have always chosen to avoid. A month-long stay in the Childress Regional Medical Center, followed by a half-year spent in intense physical therapy, was not one of the favorite highlights of my life, although my mother, in typical Lureen Twist fashion, insisted on reminding me regularly that I was lucky to be alive and should be grateful I was still around to feel the pain.  
  
I thought it was a specious argument and told her so - more than once - and she would respond by rolling her eyes and mumbling something about me being truly my father's son. Although, in that case, I thought she was reaching, for it was dead certain that Jack Twist never once used the word "specious" in his entire thirty-nine years of living.  
  
"I woke you up," said the love of my life when I mumbled my 'hello' into the phone.  
  
"What makes you think so?"  
  
I could hear the smile in her voice. "Because you sound like Oscar the Grouch, and you only sound like that when you're waking up."  
  
I laughed. "Speaking of waking up, you know you could come back over here. And wake me up in a much more interesting way."  
  
"Not a good idea, Hon," she answered gently. "Not tonight. I think you need some space - some time to adjust. Everything's been in such turmoil that you haven't had any time at all to process your grief. And I do know what I'm talking about, you know. When my dad passed away, I discovered that all I wanted was some quiet time, just to think about him, and remember him. I want to make sure you have that too."  
  
"I don't deserve you," I said with a sigh.  
  
"Of course you don't," she agreed, still smiling, I thought, "but you're stuck with me. Now, get up from that desk and go to bed to get some real rest."  
  
"How did you know I was . . ."  
  
"Well, I could claim woman's intuition," she interrupted, "and convince you of my witchy feminine wisdom so that you know you'll never be able to get away with anything. But the truth is that I can hear the ticking of that grandfather clock in the corner by your desk."  
  
This time, my laugh was tinged with sadness. "Lureen would be ashamed of you, you know. She knew the true value of witchy feminine wiles."  
  
"Lureen," she answered softly, "knew the true value of lots of things. Beneath that brassy exterior, there was a lot of love and a lot of wisdom. Now you do what I told you, Bob, and get some rest, and not by putting your head down on that desk either."  
  
"Si, mi capitán." I hoped she could hear the love in my voice, as strongly as I felt it in my heart.  
  
It was still raining when I hung up the phone, and the wind had risen to swirl around the house with a long, low moan that seemed to mourn with me, as I turned again and looked up at my mother's last photograph. Taken before she fell ill, it captured her bright spirit perfectly, with light catching in hair now pale as spun gold. Truly, my daddy's "Yellow Rose".  
  
I wondered for a while if she would find my father waiting for her, but, in the end, I knew better, and I hoped she would not grieve to learn that the thing she had wanted so much in life would remain forever beyond her grasp, even in death. But I refused to pretend that I resented him for her sake; he had lived his life torn and fractured, and I could not wish that he be forced to spend eternity in the same way. Even in death, even when his body was reduced to gray dust, he had been pulled asunder and deposited into two different worlds, neither of which was of his choosing.  
  
My mother had been right; it did matter. A man's wishes concerning the final disposition of his body should be honored. That was a choice that no one should have the right to deny.  
  
I would find Buckback Mountain, and I would take his ashes - the ones still interred in a stone chalice set in a niche in the marble monument standing over the place in which my mother had been laid to rest that very day and the ones buried in a stark grave in a barren little plot set beneath the stormy skies of Wyoming - and I would give him the one thing he had asked of us. I would take him home, to the place where his soul could regain what his life had taken from him.  
  
The antique clock behind me struck midnight, and I sighed, staring once more at the blinking light on the answering machine. More than anything else, I wanted to ignore that bright pulse, and go up to my room in the southwest corner of the house where the sound of the rain was always more distinct and pervasive, where I had been lulled to slumber many nights by its soporific voice.  
  
But there might be something important among the dozens of murmurs of condolence, delivered in formulaic, funereal terms and tones. There might be something I needed to know.  
  
Reluctantly, I touched the playback button, and immediately paged through a half-dozen messages beginning with, "I was so sorry to hear . . ." It wasn't that the sentiments weren't genuine or heartfelt; it was just that I was in no shape to bear up under more of the soft-hearted sympathy that I'd been drowning in all day.  
  
The seventh message, however, was different.  
  
"Hey, Bob. It's Miranda."  
  
My editor, my slave driver, my Svengali - my friend.  
  
"I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you today, but there was just no way to arrange a flight out in time. It may be that the world has become a small place these days, but Katmandu is still Katmandu, and getting to and from is still a major undertaking. Plus this silly twit I'm trying to edit is driving me to drink. Not that I need much driving in that direction. And if you think that's an indication of moral weakness, let me suggest that you spend six weeks in the company of someone who seems to believe that the wisdom of the universe can be accessed through staring at one's own navel. What a sophomoric idiot, but, unfortunately for me, an idiot whose mystical/semi-psychedelic philosophical maundering goes for big bucks on the literary market these days. Comes under the heading of 'no accounting for taste', I guess.  
  
"Anyway, please remember that I'm thinking of you, and that I always thought your mother was a true, one-of-a-kind original. She will be missed, and not just by you.  
  
"And, by the way, just to offer a ray of sunshine in a dark moment, I just got an advance copy of a press release which shows that _Star_ has made its debut on the Times list. So formal congratulations, Mr. Twist. You are now officially a successful author.  
  
"Call me when you can."  
  
Despite the misery of the long day behind me and the desolation that still hovered above me like a blanket waiting to fall, I felt a small rush of satisfaction. Even with the assurances of people like Miranda, people knowledgeable about the vagaries and chaos of the literary world, I had never been completely convinced that the book - the work into which I had poured my life's blood - was really good enough to justify calling myself a professional writer.  
  
Validation was sweet, even though it came draped in darkness.  
  
I went on the next message, and was instantly soothed and touched by the gentleness of the next voice I heard.  
  
"Bobby, it's Grandma Twist. I don't know how t' begin t' tell ya how much I grieve fer yer ma, and fer you, Honey. I jus' wish I'd a known her better."  
  
I felt new tears form in my eyes. "Me, too," I whispered, as the message continued.  
  
"I know I ain't never been much of a grandmother t' ya, Bobby, but that don' mean I don' love ya, Son. When I look at ya, I see what a fine man ya turned out t' be, an' I'm real proud of ya . . . an' then I see my Jack. I hope that don' make ya mad, that I see him in ya, but that's th' truth of it. I still miss him so much. Guess that sounds silly since he's been gone fer so long, but I do. An' even more now that John's passed on.  
  
"Anyway, I hope it'll be some comfort t' ya t' know that I'm prayin' fer yer ma to rest in peace, an' fer you t' find yer own happiness, dear Bobby. Lord knows, there's been enough misery in the Twist family, so maybe things'll work out better fer you. An' if ya ever need family - fer whatever reason - I'm here. Don' reckon there's a whole lot I could do fer ya, but I'd sure try t' give ya whatever ya need.  
  
"An' I reckon you'll be needin' t' decide what you wanna do with this ol' place purty soon. It'll all be yers when I'm gone. So you feel free t' call me if ya want, though I'll understand if ya don't. I wish I'd a done more fer yer daddy, but it's too late t' fix what's long gone. Still I'd be glad t' do whatever I can fer you.  
  
"You take care now. Yer daddy would be mighty proud a you."  
  
There was a soft click as the call ended, and I hurried to turn off the machine. I had heard all I could stand, endured all I could take of that endless day, and the tears were flowing freely. "Would he?" I whispered, feeling the full weight of that hour, that year, that long trail of events . . . the history behind it all . . . and hungering for a certainty that I knew I would never find.  
  
I looked up at the painting again - Daddy's golden cowboy - and realized something that I should have figured out before.  
  
There was someone who would know what I needed to find out.  
  
In the morning - very early morning - I would make the call. No worries about phoning too early and disturbing her sleep. Grace Twist was the wife of a Wyoming rancher; staying in bed past sunrise would be considered unforgivable sloth in her reality.  
  
My grandmother would be able to give me my answers.  
  
I went to bed then, with Tinker in her customary place, draped over my feet. The rain continued to roar, and I refused to think about the new grave and the damage that the downpour might do to it.   
  
My mother was not really there anyway; I knew that.  
  
My father had given me that assurance, four years after he died.   


 <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

TBC

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Chapter 4  
  
_Remember me when I am gone away.  
Gone far away into the silent land;  
When you can no more hold me by the hand.  
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.  
Remember me when no more day by day  
You tell me of our future that you planned:  
Only remember me: you understand  
It will be late to counsel then or pray.  
Yet if you should forget me for a while  
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:  
For if the darkness and corruption leave  
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had.  
Better by far you should forget and smile  
Than you should remember and be sad_.  
  
~ Christina Rossetti  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
  
I didn't expect to sleep well, or even at all, but exhaustion took its toll, and the sun was well risen by the time I was awakened by Tinker wriggling around, trying to maneuver herself into the dark warmth beneath the blankets. It was - as always, according to the lament my mother had mumbled almost every morning of her life - cold enough in the house to hang meat. Though my dad always hated to be cold - a leftover from his childhood in the frigid North, no doubt - he always relished snuggling into the warm comfort of a nest of blankets while the central air unit worked overtime to put a genuine chill in the air.  
  
It was, he'd always claimed, the sweetest luxury, and I agreed. Mama, of course, didn't, but she was usually outvoted, and, since he was always the last to go to bed at night, he usually got his way. After his death, it became a semi-comical little family tradition - a tiny homage to his memory - that I perpetuated and she tolerated, although not without periodic, ritualistic complaining.  
  
The cold air was also wonderfully conducive to encouraging one to linger within the embrace of a warm bed, an extra perk for those, like me and my dad, who were definitely not morning people.  
  
A quick peek at the digital clock on the bedside table revealed that it was almost nine when I finally forced myself to do more than snuggle deeper into my covers, trying to postpone the inevitable. Recalling my solemn vow of the previous night to rise early and phone my grandmother before she started her busy day, I reflected that I had little in common with my Twist ancestors, as I would have bet good money that none of them had ever, in their entire lives, slept past sunrise.  
  
None of them, except one.  
  
Most mornings, my dad had forced himself to crawl out of bed early enough to get dressed and get to work on time, often remarking, as he buried his face in an over-sized coffee cup, that he would rise, but he was damned if he would shine. Not, at least, until he'd ingested his customary quart of caffeine and spent a couple of hours reconnecting with reality. He was never actually grumpy; Daddy didn't do grumpy very well, although he could and often did out-bitch anybody else I ever met. But he was usually pretty quiet in the mornings - better at listening than talking. And that, for anybody who knew him at all, would probably have been surprising, for most of them would have believed that he didn't do quiet very well either.  
  
When I thought about it, as I often did after he was gone, I sometimes felt tears rise in my eyes to realize that - despite having loads of acquaintances and lots of business contacts and casual drinking buddies - my father really didn't have many people who knew him well, and it wasn't because people weren't eager to get to know him. Plenty of those who crossed his path were intrigued by him and wanted to get to know him better; many of them probably even believed that they'd succeeded in doing so. Only the very discerning would have realized that what they saw, what they learned about my father, were only those things he allowed them to see. The man inside remained unseen - unknown.  
  
And it hurt too to remember that I grew to know him well myself only after he was taken from us. Except for the fact that I always knew the most important things, the kind of things very few other people would ever be able to understand because most would never be able to look beyond the labels that were hung on him once he was no longer around to stand up for himself.  
  
Jack Twist. Queer, fag, homo, fairy, fruit fly, poof - and the other names, the uglier, more graphic ones that seemed to amuse those who thrived on hating what they didn't understand, the names bestowed on him by people who never knew him at all, and never would. People who never knew Jack Twist - father, husband, friend, hard worker, super salesman, horseman, bull rider, practical joker, storyteller, companion . . . hero.  
  
Hero. I knew that the number of people who would ever understand that particular name was minute, and I was growing more and more convinced that I needed to find someone else who would understand, without needing to have it explained.  
  
Daddy's golden cowboy.  
  
I thought about how many hours I had spent studying the face in that painting, looking for a clue about the man behind the image. Looking to see if I could detect anything of Jack Twist in that solitary figure, but ultimately, looking in vain, for there was, in the final analysis, nothing in the portrait to connect him to my father or to suggest any similarity between them. Even the posture of the individual in the painting spoke of the vast difference between them, expressing a reluctance to step forward, a tendency to stand back and withhold judgment and close in on himself, something that Daddy - a creature of bold impulse - had never been able to do.   
  
I had heard it often enough, as conventional wisdom. Was it true that opposites attract? That the dark shadows that seemed to emanate from the figure in that painting fit perfectly into the empty spaces that existed in my father's heart, making both of them complete only when they were together?  
  
Sometimes I wanted to know so badly that it was a physical pain inside me, and sometimes I didn't want to know at all.  
  
What was it, I had asked myself a million times, that drew my father to this individual? What was it within this man that had held Jack Twist captive, had kept him locked away from the life he might have had?  
  
Locked away . . . from me.  
  
And, most of all, did the cowboy ever feel anything in return? And, if he did, would it still matter to him now, after all these years? Would he still care enough - feel enough - to be willing to answer my questions and help me honor my father's final wish?  
  
Was I wrong to pursue this? I asked myself, as I looked out to see that the rain had stopped during the night, and that the prairie stretching away toward the horizon was vibrant and fresh and erupting with the raw, turbulent green of spring. Would I find what I was seeking if I succeeded in locating the man in that portrait? Or would I learn that everything I believed, everything I held sacred about my father, was just another lie?  
  
Taking a deep breath, I kicked off the blankets, ignoring Tinker's protest, and got up, noticing the rich scent of coffee wafting through the bedroom door that I'd left open when I'd finally come staggering to bed in the wee hours of the morning.  
  
God bless Chelsea! It had not occurred to me to set up the coffee maker in all the chaos of the previous night, but she had not forgotten.   
  
I reminded myself of how lucky I was to have found someone who knew my needs better than I did and saw to them, even when I forgot. She claimed that my lapses were all due to my artistic temperament, but, personally, I knew that I was just absent-minded and easily distracted.  
  
About some things, at any rate.  
  
Nevertheless, my darling understood that my first need - every day - was extra strong, rich coffee, brewed from the special dark blend that my father had discovered on a visit to friends in southern Louisiana and brought back with him, thus giving birth to another small Twist family tradition that would live on when he was gone. Unable to resist the aroma, I pulled on a pair of soft, faded jeans and walked into the hall, stretching and yawning as I adjusted the AC thermostat to a more comfortable setting - "Arctic-plus, at last," said my mother's voice in my mind - before moving toward the stairs.  
  
When I approached the bedroom that my parents had shared, I noticed that the door was ajar, and I paused, wanting to step forward and close it, and wanting, at the same time, to keep walking, and never have to close it at all, as if there might still be those individuals within that room who had filled it - and my life - so completely.  
  
But, in the end, I drew a deep breath and walked to the door and pushed it open to look inside where a broad column of sunlight was pouring in through the draped sheers that were the latest incarnation of my mother's incessant redecorating. Cream-colored silk, accented with forest green and deep coral, was warm and inviting in the morning light, and the air still bore a faint trace of spiced fragrance, a blend of the perfume she always wore and the crème brulee scented candles she always loved.  
  
The room had been remodeled completely since my father died - not once, but several times - so there wasn't much of him left within it. The king-sized bed with its richly carved headboard was the only piece of furniture that my mother had never swapped out for a newer, later model. Other than that, the only traces of him that remained there, except for a number of photographs scattered on various surfaces around the room, were displayed in a small, glass-fronted cabinet that sat beside a shallow bay window: a slightly battered old belt buckle, lovingly polished, and his dress hat - a Stetson, dark, perfect, pristine, just as he had left it on that last day when he drove away wearing his old, comfortable Resistol. Also displayed beside those things were a delicate, pearl-trimmed tiara, a jeweled fan, and a lacy, hand-embroidered handkerchief - items my mother had worn or carried on the day of their wedding.  
  
I stood there in the doorway, studying the things in that cabinet, and remembered Daddy's face that last morning and how he smiled at me when he said good-bye, even though he hadn't been smiling much over the last few months of his life. Looking back later, I would recall that the only thing that seemed to make him truly happy during that period was my relationship with Lucia and how well that had worked out. I had never really understood why that was true, and I wondered as I stood there that morning if I would soon find out the truth of it, and whether or not it would be something I would want to know.   
  
I breathed deep, absorbing the scents - real and remembered - and closed my eyes, to find that I could almost hear his voice echoing in that sunny bedroom, the echo of the man he had been before those final months, the one who was still capable of warmth and laughter and memories of youth, and then I suddenly remembered my mother - and the only time I ever saw her so embarrassed that she actually blushed.  
  
_They had been married for eleven years, and I had gone on a canoe trip with my scout troop on the week-end of their anniversary, leaving them alone in the house. They weren't expecting me back until the Sunday afternoon, but a sudden violent storm in the hill country before noon on Saturday had resulted in heavy flooding, and the scout trip had been cut short. That was, of course, before the advent of cellular phones, and it never occurred to me - or to my Scout leader - to seek out a pay phone and call ahead to let them know that I would be back early.  
  
It was early evening when I arrived home, and I knew before I walked in that the house was empty. The garage door was open, and my dad's new F150 was parked inside, but my mother's big Caddy was missing, so I was sure they had gone out to celebrate the occasion. But I wasn't bothered by the prospect of an evening by myself. On the contrary, I was eagerly anticipating the chance to pig out on junk food and soda and catch a little "Starsky and Hutch" and "Carol Burnett" on tv before the folks got home and raised a fuss about the 'proper dinner' I hadn't eaten or the shower I hadn't taken before lolling around on Mama's fancy sofa with my feet propped up on her antique coffee table.  
  
What I had not counted on was the fact that, when they did arrive home, they were a little pre-occupied and just a little bit drunk. Drunk enough and pre-occupied enough that neither one noticed me in the living room as they stumbled up the stairs, laughing and mumbling things I couldn't hear or understand.  
  
I was only ten, of course - too young and naive to know much or to put two and two together and come anywhere near four. Although I did know the facts of life - technically - they still existed in the form of abstract theories for me, rather than clinical truths.  
  
When they blundered into their bedroom and closed the door behind them with a hefty thump, I gave myself a couple of minutes, to finish watching Harvey Korman and Carol Burnett giggle over Tim Conway's antics, before helping myself to a last glass of Coke and one more Twinkie. Then, content in a sugar-afterglow, I wandered upstairs and pushed open their bedroom door which was solidly closed, but not locked.  
  
The timing was either perfect or horribly, atrociously bad . . . depending on how one looked at it.  
  
As I stepped into the shadowed room, illuminated only by a small crystal lamp on the bedside table, my mother came twirling through the door from their private bathroom, wearing a skimpy, bright red, lace-trimmed something that barely covered the necessities, with her breasts bulging out of the top of the garment like ripe melons. It would be another half-decade before I would learn that the contraption she was wearing was called a 'bustier', but, at that moment, I doubt I could have provided my middle name, if asked, as she posed in the doorway, framed against the bathroom light behind her, before starting to strut forward, grinding her hips and launching into the opening lyrics of a raunchy chorus. "Hey, Big Spender, spend . . ."  
  
She was half way across the distance to the bed when my father spotted me, and I saw his eyes grow huge as he panicked, grabbing a handful of blankets and pulling them up around him. I think I had caught the flash of skin - a lot of skin - before he managed to cover himself, but I was so gobsmacked by the entire scene that no details registered - a fact for which I would later be grateful.  
  
When my mother caught sight of me, she froze in mid-bump-and-grind, eyes and mouth gaping, and arms crossed in front of her in an attempt to conceal as much flesh as possible, as she made a sound that somehow reminded me of a pelican trying to swallow a swordfish - a kind of a "Grr-awp!" Later, when enough time had passed to allow us all to recognize the lighter side of the moment, my dad would comment that she had sounded like a character in a Dr. Seuss special on tv, the one in which a bunch of Whos were trying to be heard by an elephant.  
  
That was, I would agree, a pretty accurate description.  
  
Later, it would be funny, but at that moment, it was only ferociously embarrassing, for everyone in the room.  
  
Then my mother screamed, her face having gone beet-red, and she actually went airborne, diving headfirst into the bed, where my dad refused to release his hold on the covers, but did toss her a pillow which she wrapped around her like a towel. At the same moment, I turned and ran and locked myself in the bathroom.  
  
A little while later, when I finally worked up the nerve to make my way to my bedroom, still shaken and trembling, my dad, dressed in PJ bottoms and a t-shirt, came into my room. He never really said anything, choosing instead to lie down beside me and wrap his arms around me and hold me until I fell asleep. He seemed to understand that I didn't want to talk, didn't have the words with which to voice my feelings, so he just provided what I needed, a gentle touch and the love that wrapped around me like a blanket. Somehow, he always knew how to comfort me, and understood that small traumas can be just as deadly as big ones in the mind of a child._  
  
Three days later, he coaxed me into admitting how scared and upset I'd been - and why - and gently assured me that I had never had anything to worry about. Neither of them had been angry with me, although I'm pretty sure they'd exchanged a few sharp words between the two of them. Later still, my mom echoed the same thing, although she was more uneasy with the entire subject than my dad had been.  
  
It was months before we finally learned to see the humor in the memory and laugh about it, and my mother started calling me her little Peeping Tom.  
  
Strangely, over a period of time, that memory became something of a security blanket for me, a means by which I was able to postpone facing the truths that would one day be thrown in my face. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise, for, at that time, I was unprepared to deal with reality.   
  
Although I couldn't have known it then, the timing of the incident proved to be fortuitous, as it was during that same year that I first began to notice some of the whispered remarks that were made about my father - mostly by older boys, but sometimes even by kids in my own class, although I'm not sure that the ones who were my age knew any more than I did about what the comments meant.  
  
More than once, I'd heard him called Pretty Boy Twist, or, when I'd get into the kind of scuffles boys always manage to get into, someone would snarl at me that I was 'as pretty as my daddy, and just as sweet'. Which, of course, only made me fight harder and dirtier.   
  
I was a pretty good fighter; that ability was owed directly to my dad, who made sure I knew how to defend myself and impressed on me the fact that insisting on standing by the rules in a street fight was a sure way to get my ass kicked. My skill with my fists got me in trouble sometimes at school, but I learned early to give as good as I got, and I knew that he would never punish me for defending myself, nor allow Mama to do so. But the one time I ever started a fight, when I was acting like an idiot and trying to impress a girl, he walloped me good. Still, the pain in my well-tanned bottom was nothing to the ache in my heart when he said he was ashamed of me for behaving like a bully.  
  
That was the one thing, he insisted, that no son of his was ever going to be.  
  
It goes without saying, I guess, that I made plenty of mistakes when I was growing up, and he was forced to raise hell at me a lot of times, but that was one mistake I never made again. The one thing I could not endure was the idea that he might be ashamed of me.  
  
I stood there for a while, gazing into their bedroom like it was a passageway to the past. Then I rubbed my eyes and cleared my thoughts, closed the door and headed downstairs, the rich scent of dark-roast coffee drawing me onward and causing my mouth to water.  
  
Breakfast was coffee and a bagel - and more coffee.  
  
And then I was standing once more in my office, face to face with the portrait over the fireplace, and smiling a little over my own foolishness, remembering again. This time, it was my mother's voice that spoke to me, sharp and clear and ringing with truth.  
  
"Don't you go paintin' yer daddy's memory like he was all pure an' sinless, Bobby, cause he wasn't, ya know. He was at least as much sinner as saint, an' that's what made him so real, an' so special. He was one of a kind, yer daddy."  
  
And I remembered the love in her eyes when she said it, and I understood that, while she might never have guessed the things that my daddy kept hidden, she had known the things that mattered.  
  
She had been dead right, of course, and I had realized that I needed to remember the complete person he was - not just the idealized version. He was impatient, occasionally foul-mouthed, often opinionated, sometimes selfish, hot-tempered, manipulative, a bit conceited, capable of foolishness and thoughtlessness, too outspoken for his own good, and not above using charm and flattery to get his own way.  
  
And when he was in the mood to bitch, he was surely the grand champion of the art.  
  
Just a man, in the final analysis. My father - a good man, no matter that public opinion said otherwise.  
  
I looked up at the face in the portrait, and I wondered.  
  
Did you know all those things about him, and still love him anyway? Did you miss him like he missed you? Was he real to you? Did he matter to you then, and does he still matter now?  
  
Time to find out.  
  
I told myself that it was just my imagination, that the ringing of the telephone so far away, in the parlor of that decrepit old dwelling in Wyoming, could not possibly sound like an echo in a deserted house, but the image persisted in my mind. I almost expected it to go unanswered.  
  
But it didn't. When my grandmother said,"Hello", she was slightly out of breath, as if she'd been running.  
  
"Hi, Grandma," I said. "You sound busy. Hope I'm not interrupting anything important."  
  
"Oh, no, Bobby," she answered, and I could hear and feel the warmth in her voice. "Ain't nothin' much t' do around here, and none of it's important. Just helps the time pass, ya know."  
  
"You could just take it easy, Gran. Rest. Read. Watch a little tv. But I bet you're still doin' way too much, workin' way too hard. Aren't you?"  
  
"Old habits, Bobby," she answered, and I could hear the smile in her tone. "I was just gettin' my little truck patch ready fer plantin'. Come high summer, I'll be enjoyin' fresh tomatoes an' cucumbers an' snap beans. 'Sides, I don't have much use fer th' trash on the tv these days, and never was much of a reader."  
  
For a moment, I was tempted to ask her if she'd read the book I sent her - my own first edition - but I didn't. I was pretty sure I knew what her answer would be, and I was also pretty sure that - if she ever did read it - it would be hard going for her. Though it hadn't been intended to be particularly racy or sexually explicit, it was a pretty realistic slice of western life and a reflection of my own personality.  
  
And I wasn't Jack Twist's son for nothing.  
  
"I was so sorry about your mama, Bobby," she continued, her voice going soft with sympathy. "She was such a beautiful, lively woman, and I know it must a been hard fer you t' have t' watch her deal with that awful cancer."  
  
"Yeah," I agreed. "It was. But she was tougher than a lot of people thought. Like that old Frank Sinatra song says, she did it her way."  
  
When she replied, I realized that she probably didn't have a clue about any song - Sinatra or otherwise - unless it could be found in a hymnal. "You just gotta take comfort from the fact that she's in a better place, Honey."  
  
A better place. I didn't argue, but I wasn't sure that I agreed.   
  
"Thanks," I said quickly. "I'll try to remember that."  
  
"You do that," she replied. "And, if y'er lookin' t' git away fer a while - get a li'l change a scenery - mebbe ya could come up t' visit. Sure would like t' see you again."  
  
The slight quiver in her voice reminded me of how she'd stared at me the first time she saw me - stared as if she'd seen a ghost, which, of course, was the exact truth. I was Jack's son, and I was absolutely sure that she loved me for that, but I understood from the very beginning that I was also Jack, for her. The walking image of the son she'd lost, and I hoped it provided some comfort for her. More comfort than pain, anyway.  
  
"Actually, I've been thinking about doing that, Grandma. But I need to pick your brain a little first, if you don't mind."  
  
Her laugh was a little rough, like she used it only rarely. "Think that'll be mighty slim pickin's, Hon, but y'er welcome t' try."  
  
"Okay, then. I was just wondering if you might have some idea about where to find a place called Buckback Mountain, or a man named Ernest Delmer."  
  
There was a sudden hoarse sound - like a harshly-drawn breath - and a series of thumps.  
  
"Gran? Gran?" I felt a twinge of panic as I wondered . . .  
  
"Sorry," she replied, once more a bit breathless. "Getting' clumsy in my old age. I dropped the silly phone."  
  
I waited, but she didn't say anything more.  
  
"Soooo," I said finally, "do you recognize those names? Do you know . . ."  
  
"I don't think so, Bob." That was the first time she ever called me Bob, instead of Bobby, and it felt so wrong that I could barely grasp it. "Never heard a neither one."  
  
I couldn't quite hold back a sigh of disappointment. "Are you sure? It's important, Gran. I need . . ."  
  
"I'm sure," she said quickly. "Now I gotta go, Bobby. The gas truck's here t' deliver th' propane, an' I gotta go pay th' driver. I'll talk t' ya soon."  
  
And she was gone, before I had a chance to say anything more.  
  
I just sat there for a while, holding the phone in my hand as I stared out into the brightness of the morning, seeing only the darkness of dashed hopes.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
  
Nine hundred miles to the north, it was still cold in Wyoming, no matter what the calendar said. Spring was short there, and summer even shorter. But Grace Twist didn't believe in deluding herself. The cold she felt came from inside, from the core of her being, in the place where old secrets were kept locked away.  
  
There was, of course, no gas truck driving in. It had been a clumsy excuse - an outright lie - but, caught unaware, she had been unable to think of anything else to say.  
  
The old ranch house was as bleak and lifeless as it had been for all these years, as it had been since the day the only true ray of light it had ever produced had put it behind him, and it shook under the assault of a north wind that swept across the plains, gaining strength as it blustered toward the south, as Grace moved into the small, dark parlor to stand before the mantle and gaze at the only framed photograph displayed there. It was newly placed, having spent many years wrapped up in a shawl, in a closet upstairs, hidden away from the disapproving eyes of her late husband.  
  
She picked it up and moved toward the window, where the light was better, and then allowed herself to do something she seldom did. She looked down into the face of her child - the only one who had survived beyond infancy - and saw him for what he was. The only beautiful thing she'd ever created.  
  
Beautiful, and so, so wrong.  
  
She had long since lost count of the number of hours she'd spent on her knees, begging God to forgive her for failing her son, and to forgive her son for falling into such terrible sin, even when she'd spent years in denial, in refusing to acknowledge what she knew in her heart to be the truth.  
  
Her husband, of course, had taken great delight in scorning her ignorance and making sure that she could not escape the reality of it.  
  
She had known, even when she worked hard to avoid knowing.  
  
But she had known. And even if she had been successful in fooling herself, in refusing to face the truth through all the years of Jack's life, she would have been forced to face it when that young man had come to their door after Jack was gone.  
  
She had known about the shirts. After scrubbing that drafty old house for almost fifty years, there was no nook or cranny that she hadn't explored, and she'd discovered them not long after Jack had placed them in the little hidey-hole in his closet. But she'd never asked him about them, understanding somehow that they were important to him, but never knowing why.  
  
Until Ennis Del Mar had walked into her kitchen that cold morning, with the shirts, still stained with the blood of a dark memory, clutched in his hands.  
  
At that point, she had known it all and discovered, to her surprise, that she could no longer find it in her heart to condemn what her son had done or judge him for what he had been.  
  
But she'd never spent much time thinking about it, for she was a simple woman and such things only confused her. She would never be able to understand why Jack had grown up to be different from the other young men of her experience.  
  
Jack - her beloved Jack - had loved another man. She had never understood it, but she knew it was true. The knowledge was painful for her, for, according to the beliefs she had learned as a child, what he had done was a terrible sin, an abomination in the eyes of the God she had worshipped all her life.  
  
And yet, he was still her Jack. Jack, of the soft heart and the brilliant smiles. Jack, her dreamer, who loved her and forgave her for being unable to protect him from things no child should ever have been forced to endure.  
  
When he'd died - and she still could not bring herself to think about what happened to him on that horrible day - something within her had broken, and she had looked up to face her God and questioned her beliefs for the first time in her life.  
  
How could it be, she'd asked, that men could practice such hatred in the name of righteousness? Her son had been guilty only of loving unwisely. How could that simple mistake generate such vicious evil?  
  
She had changed that day and forever afterward looked around at a world she no longer understood.  
  
But she had believed it all behind her, that it was a part of the past that she would never have to face again, that the dark truth had died with him, and he would be able to rest in peace, even though he had never been allowed to go where he had asked to be taken.  
  
She looked down at Jack's face, the faded black and white of the photo unable to disguise the sparkle in his eyes, and asked for guidance.  
  
"Tell me what t' do, Jackie. He's your son, an' he's askin' fer help. So please, tell me what t' do."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
I knew that I should probably get dressed and go in to the office. Though my mother had trained her assistant well, and I had no intention of taking over the management of the family business, it would be necessary to make an appearance there sooner or later, to let the staff know that Randy Chambers had my full support and would continue on as manager there.  
  
And then there was the bank - the Ranchers' Bank of Childress - originally purchased by my mother and turned over to me for management once I'd finished school. Under our combined guidance, it had become the biggest, most successful bank in the area, and it had served my purposes extremely well.  
  
I had plenty of responsibilities that required my attention.  
  
But not, I decided, just yet.  
  
Today, I would meet my fiancé for lunch, and then we would go for a horseback ride. My mother's prize filly - Pennywise - would become Chelsea's regular mount, and I would ride Tumbleweed, the gelding that was my first purchase with the earnings from my book. It had been a while since I went out to the ranch which had belonged to my great grandfather, and I thought some time in the saddle, away from the noise and bustle of the real world, would do me some good.  
  
So I had dressed in dark denim, smiling to realize that I had inherited my father's taste in clothes, along with so many other things, and grabbed the keys to my BMW as I paused to set the burglar alarm.  
  
That's when I heard the phone in my office ring.  
  
I almost ignored it. Since it was my own private line, which couldn't be answered from the kitchen, I was tempted to just continue on my way, as I was eager to see Chelsea. This would be our last day to spend together for a while, since we both had responsibilities we had been ignoring during this family crisis.  
  
But, in the end, I didn't. The number was a private one, and only close friends and family knew it, so I realized it might be important.  
  
It was.  
  
"Not Delmer," said a shaky voice, "and not Buckback Mountain."  
  
"What? Grandma, is that you? What did you say?"  
  
She drew a deep breath, and spoke slowly, as if choosing her words with great care. "I'm sorry, Bobby," she said softly. "I hope you kin fergive an ol' fool fer her foolishness."  
  
"I don't understand," I replied. "What are you . . ."  
  
"The name of the place," she interrupted. "The place where your father wanted his ashes to be scattered. It's Brokeback Mountain."  
  
And I realized, when she said it, that I knew it was true. I didn't remember where I'd heard the name before, but I was sure that I had heard it.  
  
"Do you know where it is?" I asked, my own voice shaking by that time.  
  
"No," she answered. Then she took another deep breath. "But I know who does. It's not Ernest Delmer, Bobby. His name is Ennis Del Mar."  
  
And once more, something clicked into place somewhere in my mind, and I realized the truth of it. And the truth of something else; my grandmother knew what my father had been, and knew what Ennis Del Mar had been to him. She knew, but she would never speak of it, and I would never ask.  
  
"Do you . . ." I could barely form the words. "Do you know where he lives?"  
  
"No," she replied. "I don't."  
  
"OK," I said. "That's okay, Gran. At least, now I have the name right, so I can . . ."  
  
"I don't know where he lives," she said quickly, "but I do know where you can find him."  
  
"How?" I asked. "Where?"  
  
"Right here," she said softly. "A week from Sunday. He'll be right here."  
  
"A week from Sunday," I echoed, wondering how she could be so sure. "Why would he . . ."  
  
"A week from Sunday," she repeated firmly. "On th' anniversary of yer daddy's death. He'll be standin' beside his grave, just like he does every year."  
  
"Every year?" My knees were shaking so badly by then that I had to collapse into my desk chair.   
  
"Every year," she confirmed. Then her voice dropped to a whisper. "He brings flowers."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

TBC

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter five**  
  
  
_I heard a song on the radio just yesterday,  
The same one you always asked me to play,   
And when the song was over   
I wished they'd play it again.  
Yes, I do think about you every now and then   
  
I've been layin' here all night listenin' to the rain,   
Talkin' to my heart and tryin' to explain   
Why sometimes I catch myself   
Wondering what might have been.   
Yes, I do think about you every now and then   
  
_  
  
_Every Now and Then_ \--- Buddy Mundlock/Garth Brooks  
  
  
I remember my daddy complaining about having fourteen hours of driving ahead of him whenever he would take off for Wyoming, but either he was flying like a bat out of hell or he was stopping somewhere well short of Lightning Flat. Or both.  
  
I had only made the drive once before, when my grandfather was taken ill and not expected to recover - I was twenty-one then - and he had instructed my grandmother to call and ask me to come to meet him while he was "still in his right mind". But he had proved more resilient than the doctors expected and survived, though he never fully regained his strength, and I've long since stopped wondering about the 'rightness' - or lack thereof - of his mind.  
  
Though I had allowed a full week for the visit, I spent only two days in his company before realizing that two was more than enough and beating a hasty retreat, feeling nothing but a vast sense of relief to leave the bleak and depressing ranch house behind me.   
  
In recent years, I'd had occasion to travel there a few times - once to attend the old man's funeral, and a couple of times to check up on my grandmother of whom I had grown very fond, but all of those times, I'd flown in, landing in Casper and renting a car for the rest of the trip.  
  
So it had been a number of years since I'd made the entire drive, and I had been very young the last time, young enough to shake off the feelings of foreboding and anxiety that started as a tiny flutter in the pit of my gut and swelled ever larger as I drew near the place where my father had grown up.  
  
On this trip, I was no longer so young or so oblivious, and I wondered why I had never noticed how bleak and barren the landscape was, or pondered how such a vivid, colorful personality as Jack Twist had managed to evolve from such a dark and dreary environment. Particularly in light of the personality of the man who had ruled the Twist homestead with a heavy, iron hand that was almost always clinched into a fist - a fist he was not slow to use. That information had come to me in a rather round-about fashion - mostly from comments that my grandmother made after the old man was dead and buried. I think she was under the impression that I already knew, and she was just trying to assure me that my dad had been a good son to her, and had not deserved the abuse he got. I never told her that it was mostly news to me. Other than a few random remarks about things like learning when to duck at a very young age, Daddy never shared his thoughts about his father.  
  
In fact, he never spoke much about his childhood at all, certainly not in any detail, and I figured out later that I should have been grateful for his reticence, since it only took that one visit with my grandfather for me to figure out just what kind of hell he had constructed for his only surviving son to endure. Even with my father dead and gone, and reduced to ashes six years before, the old bastard still couldn't find it in his heart to say a kind word about him.  
  
I guess I should be ashamed to admit it, but I never managed to dredge up a single tear to mourn the passing of John Twist Sr. I realize that it was silly and childish of me to react that way, but it felt a bit like payback for his callous indifference to the death of his only son - and my only father.  
  
As my bride-to-be and I approached the final segment of our journey, I felt a moment of genuine gratitude that Chelsea would never have to meet the old man and be left to wonder whether or not I might have inherited some of his genes.  
  
As for myself, I had long since decided that, if I ever did sense anything of him in me, I would get myself lobotomized before inflicting that horror on anyone I loved.  
  
It was mid-afternoon when we passed through the village of Hulett and pulled over into a lay-by on county road 25 just outside of town. Off to our right, the bizarre formation of Devil's Tower rose dark and brooding against a bruised sky only slightly less ominous than the great monolith it shadowed, while the land ahead of us stretched flat and featureless toward a smudged horizon. When I stopped the car, the throaty purr of its powerful motor fell silent and was instantly replaced by the low, soulful moaning of the afternoon wind, sweeping relentlessly across the unbroken prairie, bringing with it the heavy scent of rain.  
  
I leaned against the car, staring at the flicker of lightning off to the north, and spent a moment wishing that I could fool myself into believing that one more cigarette - just one more - couldn't possibly do me any harm. But that thought was automatically, immediately followed by the images of my mother's final hours, and I knew I'd never again be able to enjoy the taste of tobacco. An occasional joint would have to suffice.  
  
Chelsea, who had successfully navigated her own path back from Marlboro addiction, walked a little way out in front of the Beamer and turned in a slow circle, looking out across the lonely panorama of the vast plain where the road curved off into nothingness, seeking something she was obviously not finding. When she came back to stand before me and link her arms loosely around my neck, her lovely eyes were filled with shadows of uncertainty.  
  
"What?" I asked, enjoying the length of her body pressed against me and the way we fit together.  
  
"It's beautiful," she said slowly, "but . . ."  
  
"But?"  
  
"It . . . " She paused, and looked away as a rosy blush touched her cheeks. "It's going to sound silly."  
  
I pulled her closer. "You never sound silly."  
  
"It's too vast. Too empty," she said finally. "It dwarfs the soul and drains the spirit."  
  
I was quiet for a while, lost in her loveliness and touched by her understanding.  
  
"I told you it was silly." Her smile was slightly rueful.  
  
"Not silly. Remarkable actually," I said quickly. "Do you know what my father once said about it? He said that it was so harsh and bitter and unforgiving that it just scoured all the life right out of a man, leaving behind nothing but the bone and gristle and grit that was tough enough to stand against it." I glanced once more toward the distant storm. "I think he blamed this place for turning his father into a sadistic tyrant."  
  
"Do you think he was right?"  
  
I closed my eyes, and spent a moment studying the face of the man who was still so vivid in my memory. There had been a bottomless pain in his voice when he'd offered that observation, but I had known it was not meant for me to see, so I'd said nothing in reply.  
  
"I think it was easier for him to believe that than to face the other possibility."  
  
"Which was?"  
  
"That the old bastard just didn't have it in him to love anybody. Not even his only son."  
  
"I wish I'd known your dad," she said gently. Then she smiled, and my breath caught in my throat when I read the love in her expression. "Other than through the pages of your book, that is."  
  
I couldn't resist a grin. "You're still convinced that Rusty Delcambre and Jack Twist are one and the same man?"  
  
Her eyes went soft and luminous. "A person only has so many heroes, Darlin', and I reckon I can spot one when it's right under my nose, even if you did scramble around and hide him under dirty blonde hair and amber green eyes."  
  
I suddenly couldn't deal with the sympathy in her voice. "I wish you'd known him too. You'd have liked him - a lot."  
  
"I already do."  
  
"Yeah?" I chuckled. "How ya figure that?"  
  
"Because you're just like him," she replied. "Your mama told me so. She told me about the first time they met - about looking down into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen, and knowing that she wanted to spend the rest of her life drowning in 'em."  
  
"She told you that?"  
  
"She did." She buried her face in the hollow of my throat and pressed a kiss to the underside of my jaw. "And I knew exactly what she meant."  
  
She pulled back then and stared up at me with her love shining pure and undiluted in her eyes. "You Twist men! You sure know how to catch yourself a girl."  
  
I couldn't quite suppress a sigh. "Yeah. Ironic, isn't it? I wish . . ."  
  
"I know," she said quickly, "but we've talked about this already, Hon. Your father was as God made him, and wishing it had been different won't change anything. The only thing that really matters - for you - is what he was to you and your mother. He loved you, and he loved her, and if he also loved someone else, that doesn't change what he felt for you, does it?"  
  
"No," I agreed. "But most of the rest of the world wouldn't agree with you, you know."  
  
The spark of mischief in her eyes was bright and unmistakable. "Then most of the rest of the world can just fuck off, can't they?"  
  
I laughed, and felt the rightness of it - of her - inside me. "He would have loved you."  
  
She turned in my arms and nestled back against me, wrapping my arms around her waist and lacing her fingers through mine. "You think so? He might have thought I was too . . . aggressive."  
  
It took me all of two seconds to think it over and realize how wrong she was. "He'd have called you 'feisty', and he loved feisty. I've always believed that's how he wound up with Mama. She had spirit, and Daddy always admired spirit."  
  
She was quiet for a time, and I knew that she was mulling something over - trying to comprehend something that didn't quite ring true.  
  
"Do you think he ever got angry?" she asked finally. "I mean, the hand life dealt him . . . it couldn't have been easy for him. Did he . . ."  
  
"If he did," I said quickly, "he kept it to himself. Which most people who knew him wouldn't have believed. Jack Twist, keepin' quiet about something just didn't seem to fit the personality he showed the world."  
  
"But?"  
  
I wondered for a moment if I would ever be able to keep anything from her, and then wondered why I'd ever want to.  
  
"But yeah. I think - down deep - he was angry. Only he never had anybody he could take it out on. All the time I was growin' up, I can only think of a couple of times when I saw him really lose his temper, although he could get pretty pissed off over shit he had no patience with. But he just didn't get really mad. Hardly ever. Once, at a Thanksgiving dinner when L. D. was acting his ass, I thought, for just a minute, that Daddy was going to haul off and slug the old son of a bitch. And then I looked up and saw the look in Mama's eyes and realized that she would have been just fine with it if he had. L. D. could be a real prick, especially toward Daddy. Always acted like Daddy was some kind of charity-case, just somebody he put up with because of Mama. But the truth was that Mama and Daddy were the real reason that the family business tripled in size after they took it over." I smiled at the memory. "I think it damn near killed L. D. to realize that his piss-ant, fuck-up son-in-law was ten times the salesman he'd ever be."  
  
A particularly biting gust of wind twisted around us then, and Chelsea shivered as I noticed goose bumps on her arms.  
  
"I hate to say I told you so," I murmured, burying my face in the silky tumble of her hair, " But . . ."  
  
"Don't you start. It's almost June, Bobby," she said sternly, glancing down at long, tanned legs bared below cut-off jeans.  
  
"It's almost June," I agreed, "but this ain't Texas, and it's not unheard of for it to snow here - in August."  
  
She turned to stare up into my eyes. "Are you shittin' me?"  
  
"Nope. Not that I ever saw it myself," I replied, "but Daddy did. Up in the mountains."  
  
"Which is why I'm not planning to trek into the Big Horns," she retorted. Then she must have noticed a shadow rising in my eyes, because she suddenly looked as if she wished she could recall the words. "Sorry, Honey. Sometimes, I can be a real thoughtless bitch."  
  
"Why? Because you don't want to go mountaineering?" I pulled her closer. "Darlin', this is not something that you can do for me. Or even with me. This, I have to do myself. With help, if possible, but alone, if not. This is my last gift to him. Something I owe him, in exchange for his last gift to me."  
  
For a fleeting moment, I thought I'd said too much - revealed something that I'd never shared with anyone - and I wondered if she'd press the question. But I should have known better. Chelsea, somehow, always knew when to push and when to back away.  
  
So she changed the subject. "Did they fight - your mom and dad?"  
  
I grinned. "She fought, and he ignored her. But mostly, they bickered. It got to be so habitual that I don't think either one noticed it much. It was just the way they communicated. I can only remember one time when he ever got really angry with her, and I don't think she ever totally understood why. Neither did I, but that's probably because I was really little then - just four or five, I think."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
I paused to gather my memories. "I'd been sick. Caught some kind of virus thing, and couldn't keep much of anything in my stomach. I was one miserable little pup, and somehow, whenever I was sick, it always happened that it was Daddy that stayed with me and watched over me. That time, I'd been running high fever, and he'd been making me drink lots of fluids, which either came right back up or went right straight through me so I was running to the bathroom all the time. On the third night, I guess both of us were worn out and fell asleep early, and I woke up in the middle of the night, needing to piss. Daddy had dropped off sitting up in a chair by my bed; I don't think he'd slept much since I got sick. Anyway, I didn't see any reason to wake him up. I was pretty groggy myself, but I managed to get to the bathroom on my own. I was shaky and stumbling around so much that I pretty much missed the toilet and pissed all over the place.  
  
"And about that time, my mom came tearing in there, screeching about me pissing on the wall and what the hell was I doing, and threatening to whip my butt if I didn't get down there and clean up my mess . . ." I stopped then, lost in the memory.  
  
"And?" Chelsea's voice was soft with her awareness of my pain.  
  
"My dad walked into the room." I hesitated, then corrected myself. "No, that's not quite right. He actually stalked into the room. He ignored her, picked me up and washed me, and turned to carry me back to my bed, ignoring the puddle of piss in the floor. Mama opened her mouth and said, 'Jack?' Like she was windin' up to yell at both of us, and he turned around and looked straight at her and spoke just a few words - very softly. 'Clean it up yourself, Lureen. That's what a mother's supposed to do. And if you ever spank him for something like this, you'll answer to me'."  
  
I fell silent, once more remembering the look on his face. "He never raised his voice - never mentioned it again, but there was pure, cold fury in his eyes. He scared her that night, really scared her. And I can tell you from experience that Lureen Newsome Twist never scared easy. She just stood there with her mouth open and watched him carry me away. The next morning the mess was all cleaned up, and she never said another word about it."  
  
She was quiet for a few minutes, lost in thought. "Sounds like there might have been a story there."  
  
I nodded. "Yeah, I think you're right. But if there was, it was a story he never shared, with me _or_ my mother. I asked her, after he died, and she just said that there were lots of things in his past that he'd never been able to talk about."  
  
She sighed and nestled her head against my shoulder. "That's so sad," she whispered. "Do you suppose anybody ever . . . that he ever had anyone to . . ." I saw a tear tremble on her lashes as she fell silent, unable to complete the thought.  
  
I was slow to answer, closing my eyes and remembering. "I don't know for sure, Darlin', but I hope I'm about to find out."  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
The thunderstorm struck as we drove up to the old farmhouse, and we had to wait it out before making our way inside. In that deluge, a flimsy umbrella would have been worse than useless, although my grandmother came marching out, straight and determined, the very moment the rain slacked off a bit, and she was carrying one that obviously dated from an earlier era when proportions were more generous. I've often wondered if people were larger then, but I somehow doubt it.  
  
I spent a few seconds watching as Chelsea allowed herself to be extracted from the car and engulfed in an oilcloth poncho, under the shelter of the huge, black umbrella. Muddy rain water splashed against her bare legs as my grandmother guided her toward the house, and it occurred to me that I had no idea if her manner of dress might be considered a little daring - maybe even offensive - according to rural Wyoming standards. The only young women I'd ever encountered during my trips to the ranch were members of the Pentecostal church that my grandmother had attended all her life, and that had been on the occasion of my grandfather's funeral so it hadn't offered much opportunity to observe them in any kind of natural, social setting. Did they wear Def Leppard t-shirts and cut-off jeans, exposing long, shapely legs, in Wyoming?   
  
I got out of the car and ran for it, using my jacket to shelter me from the final remnants of the deluge. There was little daylight left at that point - only a few streaks of rust-tinged flame above the western horizon, but the pristine new paint job on the house was luminous in the gloom, and new flowerbeds framing the kitchen door were thick with the trumpets of daffodils in shades of bright yellow and tangerine and ivory, accented with spires of snapdragons in rainbow hues. Everything was drooping slightly, under the weight of the rainwater, but the colors were pure and glistening and provided a stark contrast to my earliest memories of the old house - stark and faded and drab against the dun color of dead grass and hard-packed soil.  
  
My grandmother had resisted my determined efforts to upgrade and remodel the house after her husband's death, but had finally given in and allowed me to indulge myself. It would never be a luxurious, modern dwelling, but I was going to make sure that it was, at least, comfortable. It was something that my Dad had always wanted to do for her, but every suggestion he'd ever made had been brutally rejected by his father, so the task, for me, was as much about fulfilling his wishes as seeing to his mama's needs. The light from the kitchen door was like a warm beacon - a hedge against the growing darkness and the gloom of the receding storm, and it poured out its thick, liquid brilliance on the pansies that flanked the tiny stoop, highlighting the blooms' clown-like faces of scarlet and maroon and velvet black.  
  
Grandma Grace was waiting for me, holding the screen door open, and watching me approach with loving eyes - eyes that saw me . . . and saw the one who, from her perspective, stood always at my shoulder.  
  
She smelled of vanilla and fresh-baked bread and the sweet scent of lilac blossoms that filled a basket sitting on the kitchen table, harvested from the young trees planted in a row along the side of the house and in clusters between the house and the barn. All her life, she had loved lilacs. She had confessed that fondness to me when she had chosen them to drape across her husband's coffin as he was carried to his final resting place. Her mother had grown lilac trees all around the big old farmhouse at the Goodwin homestead - the very same house - situated at the other end of the property that comprised the original Goodwin ranch - where her brother Harold now lived with his daughter and son-in-law. But John Twist Sr. had considered things like lilac trees and flowerbeds to be frivolous wastes of money and effort, and, in the tradition of Wyoming rural culture, control of his wife's share of the ranch and any money it might generate fell to him, despite the fact that it only came to him through his marriage.  
  
I know that it was unforgivably petty of me, but I took great delight in borrowing the old man's truck on the day after his funeral and driving down to Sundance, where I filled the truck bed with a huge assortment of ornamental plants, including lilac trees and a special rose that the nurseryman assured me would grow on the cold, arid Wyoming plain. I spent that afternoon tilling and preparing the first flower bed she'd ever had and planting her lilacs. The next morning, she rode with me down to the family plot, to that bleak, barren little square of lost hopes, and helped me plant a beautiful, healthy lilac sapling in the corner where my father's ashes had been laid to rest so many years before. Until that time, the only effort to mark its location had been a stark white wooden cross, bearing a small brass plaque on which seven words had been engraved:

 

_Jack Twist  
Rest in Peace, Beloved Child_

  
  
Just that, and the dates of his birth and his death.  
  
It said very little, and it said everything.  
  
And perhaps the name on the marker said it most perfectly. Not John C. Twist, Jr, but Jack. Just Jack, who had tried so hard to be a part of something outside himself, but ultimately been destined to stand alone.  
  
I knew from the first time I saw that lonely place, set beneath a mournful sky, that there would have been no stone at all had it been left to his father - that the family to which the plot was dedicated was the Goodwin family and that the marker had been ordered and placed by my great Uncle Harold. Even in his death, Daddy had gone unmourned by the man who had spawned him.  
  
Except for that small, simple monument, the only thing that had ever marked his resting place was the proliferation of the wild flower known as evening primrose, clumps of its powdery sage-colored foliage coming back every year to form a pale blanket over his grave, heavy with the creamy blossoms that blushed pink with the warmth of afternoon sunlight. Sometimes, a tiny fanciful voice in my heart almost convinced me that some blithe presence lingering above the infinity of the vast prairie was determined to shelter him from the bitter cold that he'd always hated, and to see that his silent spirit, once so vivid and bright with laughter, would not go unremarked or unremembered.  
  
I had known instinctively that my grandmother wished to put up a marker to commemorate her husband's passing, but that was one wish I was not prepared to grant for her.

 

A year later, I saw that a small stone had been erected over his grave, but I have no idea what words are engraved on its surface. I never bothered to read it.  
  
"Bobby." It was how she always greeted me. Just my name, and the embrace of thin, trembling arms that wrapped around me and pulled me close to allow her to breathe the essence of me - and him. She pulled back after a time and looked up at me, and I was touched, as always, by the fact that she never tried to hide the wash of tears in her eyes. "You look . . . ."  
  
She smiled and fell silent, but I heard the unspoken words anyway. " _You look . . . beautiful. Like your daddy._ "  
  
And I knew that I would still be beautiful to her when I was fifty and fat and balding for she saw me through eyes that could never filter out the past to see the present.  
  
"But look at me standin' here like a fool, when ya both need feedin' and warmin' up. Come in, Child. Supper's waitin'."  
  
I took a deep breath and inhaled the mouthwatering scent of roast beef - the kind with a rich, dark gravy that's good enough to drink right out of the pot - and scalloped potatoes and something wonderful with cinnamon and brown sugar and - Glory be to God - Grandma Grace's cheesecake, which should be declared a national treasure, and the dense, orgasmic aroma of chocolate. I winked at Chelsea, who just barely managed not to groan her protest. She had been complaining for nine hundred miles that she was probably going to gain twenty pounds while scarfing down my grandmother's cooking, and I hadn't had the heart to tell her that she was probably being conservative in her estimate.  
  
By the time dinner was over, and I was trying to figure out why I had eaten that second slice of cheesecake - or the second mocha-frosted brownie - Chelsea was on her knees on the floor, digging through a stack of hand-made quilts, each more colorful and complex and beautiful than the last, and helping my grandmother try to remember the name of each pattern she'd used in making them, and the source of each different type of fabric. They chatted about things like 'log cabin' and 'drunkard's path' and 'flying geese', and I watched the easy warmth and affection that had sprung up between them from the moment of their meeting and realized that it had been silly of me to worry over my grandmother's reception of the person who was to be my wife. Chelsea would have been welcomed by this woman, who was the only close family I had left, if she'd walked in sporting a shaved head and nose rings - partly because of the lovely, radiant individual that she was, and partly because my grandmother would automatically love anyone who loved me.  
  
I spent a moment pondering how quickly we can forget such simple, obvious truths.  
  
"This one," Grandma Grace said in a gentle voice, hand reaching out to stroke a small scrap of pink cotton, sprigged with rosebuds, "was from a dress my mother wore to church on Sundays." Then she gestured toward a swatch of bright blue plaid. "And this was from a romper I made for Jack, when he was just a baby." She went still and silent for a moment before continuing. "It matched his eyes."  
  
I continued to watch for a while, as she pointed out other scraps, remnants of other memories. Then I poured myself a cup of coffee and wandered out to stand on the stoop and gaze up into the heavens. The clouds had lumbered off toward the north and left behind an unbroken star field that was like an inverted bowl of jeweled infinity - closer somehow and denser than a Texas sky. The sweet fragrance of lilacs was borne on the zephyrs of wind that still moved through the night in the aftermath of the storm, but there was also a heavier perfume - less pervasive but more exotic.  
  
"It's your rose, Bobby," said my grandmother, as she stepped up behind me and laid her face against my shoulder. "Harison's yellow. Took some doin'.  Thought I'd lose it fer sure once or twice, but it's a tough li'l thing. You'll see it in the mornin', out in the barnyard. Found a perfect spot out there fer it. It's jus' full a blooms, like pockets a sunshine."  
  
I smiled. "The yellow rose of Texas."  
  
She nodded. "Felt a little like you left pieces a yerself behind when ya went back home. Fer me . . . an' fer yer daddy."  
  
I turned then to look down at her. "My daddy?"  
  
Something moved in her eyes, then, and I was surprised to realize that there was a small measure of pride in her expression. "I always wanted t' plant flowers around his grave, but John . . . he never . . ."  
  
"I know," I said quickly, not wanting her to be forced to say it.  
  
"Then," she continued softly, "after he was gone, nothin' I tried would grow there. Even the lilac bush you planted was just barely hangin' on. But then, last fall, Harold brought in a bunch a compost for me and some good topsoil, an' he helped me t' plant one of yer rosebushes down there, and a bunch a other stuff too. An' . . ." She paused then, and I could feel the tremors in her frail body as I saw the tears well in her eyes. "An' it's jus' . . . It's beautiful, Bobby. Tulips an' hyacinths an' larkspur - and a cascade of yellow roses and lilacs."  
  
Again, she hesitated, as if looking for the right words. "It's like . . . I finally get t' tell 'im good-bye, Bobby. An' t' tell 'im . . ."  
  
"I know, Gran," I whispered, wrapping my arms around her. "And he knew too. He always knew that you loved him."  
  
She pulled back and peered up at me. "Did he? I'm not so sure a that, Bobby. I didn't do a very good job a . . ."  
  
"You did the best you could," I reassured her, torn by the terrible ache I knew she was experiencing, hoping that I sounded more certain than I really was. I knew that my dad had always loved his mother, but only he could have said for sure if he'd ever forgiven her for not being able to protect him from his father's brutality.  
  
Still, I was pretty sure that I was right. Once he had gotten old enough to examine all the evidence and reach a logical conclusion, he would have understood that she was as much a victim as he was. It wasn't in his nature to hold old grudges.  
  
"Grandma," I said quietly, as Chelsea emerged from the house and laid a gentle hand on my shoulder, "you do understand what I want to do? Why I'm looking for Ennis Del Mar?"  
  
She nodded. "Y'er plannin' t' take Jack's ashes up t' that mountain. Like he wanted."  
  
"Are you . . ." I placed my hand under her chin to tilt her face up so I could see her eyes. "Is that going to be all right with you?"  
  
She took a step back, and moved to the edge of the stoop where she could look up into the sky, paling now in the dim glow of a quarter moon just rising in the east.  
  
"It's what he wanted, an' what I wanted fer 'im," she answered. "An' that's why his ashes are still sealed up in the container that yer ma sent 'em in. John . . . he wanted t' jus' dump 'em out in th' grave, but I couldn't do that. So I lied t' him. After th' burial service, he had chores t' see to, so Harold stayed with me 'til it was done, an' we placed th' urn in the grave, still sealed."  
  
She turned and looked at me steadily. "I always hoped this day would come. Never was able t' give 'im much, but I wanted t' be able t' give 'im this." She fell silent for a moment, and her eyes were suddenly dark with memory and regret. "Jack . . . my Jack - I always thought he was like a wounded bird. Meant t' fly with the eagles, but always held t' earth by somethin' outside 'imself." Her vision cleared abruptly, and a look of determination touched her face. "It's time someone let 'im fly, and it's only right that it should be you, Bobby - that you should take 'im t' the place he mos' wanted t' be."  
  
I closed my eyes, and saw my father's face in my mind - saw how he smiled at me on the day he drove away for the last time - and saw too the face in that painting that was so precious to him.  
  
"Tomorrow," I whispered. "Tomorrow, I find out if he's willing to help me, or if I have to find another way."  
  
My grandmother turned to look up at me, and there was a flash of something remarkable in her eyes. Could it possibly be anger?  
  
"Tell ya what," she said firmly. "If he ain't willin' - if he gives ya any argument - ya bring him t' me, Bobby."  
  
We followed her into the house then, to prepare for bed, and Chelsea and I exchanged little smiles, both understanding that even a woman as meek and gentle as Grace Twist could be driven to bare unsuspected claws in defense of her beloved child. I couldn't be sure what the next day would bring, but I was absolutely certain that Ennis Del Mar would have no idea that he was about to be caught up in a moment of destiny.  
  
*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*  
  
  
  
The trip seemed to get longer every year, and driving across the plains offered little in the way of changing scenery to relieve the monotony of the hours. Of course, the distance was a little greater now, since the move to the new ranch in Fergus county, Montana, but it was no great hardship. His F150 pick-up was well maintained and comfortable, a big improvement over the piece-a-shit truck he'd been driving the first few times he'd made this journey.  
  
Twelve years. God, could it really be twelve years?  
  
Twelve years since that last time, the day he'd driven away from the trailhead with the bitter taste of harsh truths and harsher lies and angry accusations in his mouth, leaving behind the source of the purest joy he had ever known, never realizing that it truly would be the last time - that he would never get the chance to take back the horrible things he'd said and that Jack would go to his grave believing them.  
  
In the interim, he had made this drive every year, even though he had built a new life for himself after enduring the loss that had almost destroyed him. Sometimes, it still astonished him that he had found new love, with a new man, and together, they had achieved contentment and acceptance, enabling him to leave the past behind him.  
  
Except for just this one day, each year.  
  
Just this one day, when he could not quite convince himself to ignore the anniversary of the death of Jack Twist.  
  
He loved his partner - the man who had rescued him from that empty existence and given him a new sense of purpose, who had pulled him out of the depths of a depression so black and solid that it had almost driven him into a bottomless madness from which he would never have escaped.  
  
But he knew - and he was pretty sure that Mike knew as well - that it had been Jack Twist who had originally unlocked the doors of the prison in which he had been confined throughout his young life; that, without Jack, there would have been no new existence for him - that he would have been condemned to spend a lifetime wondering why nothing he did ever seemed to bring him happiness, and trying to find himself in a world in which he had no place.   
  
He was gay; he could say that now, although he had never been able to say it to Jack.  
  
It seemed to him that to make the effort, once each year, to come to this place and kneel beside a lonely grave - to whisper the apology he had never been able to offer in life - was only fitting.  
  
Mike was never happy to see him go, and even less happy to be told that he was not welcome to come along for the ride. But this was something he strongly believed, that this was a debt he owed alone, and which he could only pay alone.  
  
Many years - most years - the arid plains would stretch out around him, barren even in the midst of spring, changeless and timeless and lonely. But occasionally, when the weather had been less fierce than usual, when gentle rains had fallen in place of the violent tempests that were so common to the area, the prairie would exhibit an unexpected beauty, displaying broad fields of new grass, strewn with clumps of columbine and wild lupine. This was such a year, and he drove with his window down, breathing in the scents of life reawakening.   
  
It had rained as he drew close to his destination, but it was only a soft morning shower, without lightening or wind, and the air was fresh and warm with the first promise of summer.  
  
When he pulled his truck off into the narrow private lane that wound around to the tiny burial plot that served the Goodwin/Twist family, he paused for a moment to collect his thoughts - to prepare himself.   
  
Getting out of the truck was a lot more complicated than it had been in his younger days. It had been almost two years since the accident that had left him with a damaged spine and a gimpy leg, and he was still impatient with his own limitations. Everything was harder now, requiring more intense focus and physical caution. He still worked on the ranch he shared with his partner, still rode horseback though not as frequently or as easily, but too often now, he felt the years like a weight on his back, like reminders of all he had lost.  
  
All he had lost.  
  
He stood for a moment, looking uphill toward the tiny private cemetery, noting that the rain had moved off behind him and the sun was breaking through, creating prisms of raindrops with its bright rays, and he decided abruptly to leave his cane - which he hated with a singular passion - in the truck. He would move slowly, giving himself time to adjust to the strain of the walk and the weight of his memories, carrying the enormous spray of blue irises and white daisies and scarlet lilies that he had ordered from a florist in Lewistown.  
  
When he moved forward, it was with a halting gait, lacking the ease and fluidity that he had enjoyed well into his middle years.  
  
Then he stopped, frozen by a thought. "Ya used t' call me graceful, Bud." It was just a whisper, pulling on a scrap of memory. "Reckon ya wouldn't think that no more."  
  
He walked on, taking his time, watching his steps, but, as he drew nearer to the little plot, his eyes widened as he saw what was new and different about the sad little graveyard - what had been so barren and bleak and was now so bright and beautiful.  
  
He could not sprint any more - had lost that ability even before the accident - but he hurried as best he could, eager to be sure that his eyes were not deceiving him, that someone - at long last - had done something to mark this place, to honor the memory of the man who had been laid to rest here against his will, a bright, vivid spirit locked away and forgotten in earth blasted and scoured by the unforgiving elements.  
  
But no more. Gone the stark, graceless rectangle of hard-packed soil; the erosion of the ground that had caused the wooden cross to lean one way or another and shift with every blast of wind; the coarse thatch of dried grasses, releaved only by any wild flowers that might manage to establish a hold there. All gone and forgotten beneath the eruption of red and yellow and white tulips, purple hyacinths and irises, the lovely lavender of lilac blooms so thick and rich that the limbs of the bush drooped to touch the ground, the brilliant yellow of a fountain of roses, sweet-scented and rain-kissed, and the blue of the larkspur. Unbelievable blue. Unforgettable blue.  
  
Ennis staggered and fell to his knees, the bouquet he carried falling away, forgotten, as he leaned forward to bury his face in the lush display.  
  
"Jack," he whispered. "Are ya here, Jack?"  
  
The tears came - hot and plentiful - as he remembered.  
  
Remembered all that he had forgotten, and how hard it had been to face the truth of it.  
  
He had told himself that it was for the best; that it was what Mike deserved and needed, but, deep inside, he had known better. The first time it came to him that he could no longer remember the exact sound of Jack's voice, he had forced himself to accept it and to move on, but he had known even then that he had lost something irreplaceable.  
  
That had been the first memory lost, but there had been many more as time went on, and he had mourned each one of them. Silently.  
  
The day when he could no longer be sure he would recognize the unique scent of Jack Twist - a combination of meadow grasses and soft leather, of fresh sweat and tobacco, and something else, something indefinable, but uniquely Jack - he accepted it, because he had no choice, but he knew it would happen again and again.  
  
That he would lose the memory of the taste of those smiling lips, and the touch of that golden skin - of the pattern of calluses and scars on those big hands and the soft swirl of the dark hair that marked the center of that broad chest - of how those blue eyes, alight with mischief, would peer up at him from beneath the brim of that battered old black hat.  
  
Piece by piece, Jack had left him, and he had made himself believe that everything was as it should be, even as something inside him cried out in protest, cried out that somebody should remember him - somebody who had loved him.  
  
Loved him. Oh, yes, that was the other thing he'd learned - too late, as with most of the things he'd learned in his life.  
  
Mike was a good, decent man, a man who loved Ennis and would move heaven and earth to prove it, and, in return, Ennis loved Mike.  Loved him dearly and whole-heartedly, but he had loved Jack first, and if he had loved him better, that was something he chose not to examine too closely. Just as he never allowed himself to examine the only tangible evidence that still existed to attest to what had happened between them. He never looked at it any more, but he didn't throw it away either. In this, he had followed Jack's philosophy. The evidence remained, packed away in a sturdy box, secreted in a nook at the back of a seldom-used storage cabinet.   
  
Ennis thrust his arms into the profusion of foliage and breathed deep, allowing the grief to take him, as he did every year - but only this once, only on this day. To allow it to overwhelm him at other times, in the environment he shared with his partner, would have been a betrayal to his commitment to Mike - a commitment he had never made to Jack.  
  
He never let himself think about why.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Jack. You know I am."  
  
He didn't know how long it was that he knelt there, his face buried in the bright blooms that marked the grave, but he shivered suddenly. Realizing that the wind had risen a bit, he sat up, still lost in grief and memory. The sun had brightened, and was reflecting brilliantly off the raindrops still beaded on all the flowers and foliage, and he squinted his eyes against the glitter.  
  
Then he felt rather than saw a shadow move across the radiance, a figure that was dark and undefined against the dazzling backlight.  
  
A shadow that . . .  
  
He lifted his hand to shade his eyes - eyes that still didn't serve him particularly well at close range. Mike had been fussing for years, trying to convince him that contact lenses were the way to go, to . . .  
  
He squinted again, making out the shape of the body, the contours of the features . . .  
  
Resolution came slowly, then definition, and - finally - recognition!  
  
Ennis surged to his feet, and felt something seize up inside him - a terrible, paralyzing pain that took his breath and erupted through his body, spreading to every extremity.  
  
"Jack?" It was more gasp than whisper.  
  
It couldn't be. It couldn't be . . . unless . . .  
  
Trembling uncontrollably, he reached out and touched warm skin, solid bone, dark stubble obscuring the sharp jawline.  
  
His heart was hammering in his chest, and he remembered the warning provided by the physician during his recovery from his accident, the warning about cardiac problems that might arise one day if he didn't take precautions.  
  
He had left behind his concerns with taking precautions on the day that he'd learned about Jack's death. It just hadn't seemed to matter any more.  
  
But now . . . was it possible?   
  
"Ya come t' git me, Jack?"  
  
And a closer look convinced him that he was right; that, warmth and bone and stubble notwithstanding, this could not be the real Jack Twist, somehow restored to life, for this was Jack as he had been during their early years together. Jack - beautiful and fresh and young - and still full of hope.  
  
"Jack, are ya . . ."  
  
Blue eyes - oh, God, those blue eyes - darkened with sadness. With pity?   
  
Was that why he had come back, to offer pity and . . .  
  
"Ennis." The voice was as rich and full and gentle as he remembered, and it suddenly didn't matter why he had come back. Only that he had.  
  
Ennis surged forward, and threw himself into those strong arms, suddenly knowing nothing beyond the need to touch, to feel, to breathe that bright presence.  
  
"Ennis." There was definitely sadness in the voice, even a shade of reluctance. "I'm sorry, Ennis."  
  
"Sorry?" Ennis clung to that hard-muscled frame, understanding nothing but his need. "Sorry for what?"  
  
Strong hands, big hands . . . but - maybe - not quite big enough . . . clasped Ennis by the shoulders and pushed him back, so that he could look up into eyes as blue as the vault of heaven, but not quite blue enough.  
  
There was a definite tremor in the voice when it spoke again. "I'm not . . ."  
  
"Jack," Ennis interrupted. "You're not Jack."  
  
Suddenly, he wondered why he had not noticed the bitter cold, as it surged through him, sweeping away every trace of hope reborn, leaving behind only old, tired memories. He took a deep breath, hungry eyes devouring the young face and form standing before him; then he turned to look away, and Bobby Twist, loving son of Jack, suddenly knew one thing with absolute certainty.  
  
Whatever hardship he had endured - and there was no doubt that he had endured more than his share - and however cruel his destiny had been, Jack Twist had not gone unloved or unmourned, and, for that, his son was intensely grateful.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 TBC

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**  
_  
We spake of many a vanished scene,  
Of what we once had thought and said,  
Of what had been, and might have been,  
And who was changed, and who was dead;   
And all that fills the hearts of friends,  
When first they feel, with secret pain,  
Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,  
And never can be one again;   
The very tones in which we spake  
Had something strange, I could but mark;  
The leaves of memory seemed to make  
A mournful rustling in the dark.   
O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!  
They were indeed too much akin,  
The drift-wood fire without that burned,  
The thoughts that burned and glowed within.  
  
\-- The Fire of Driftwood_ \-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
"Y'er Bobby."  
  
There was the ring of finality in the two words, as if there could be no argument.  
  
Which, of course, was only appropriate, in both ways he meant it. I _was_ Bobby, and there was no way I could be anybody else but Jack Twist's son.  
  
I could tell that he had turned slightly, just enough to watch me out of the corner of his eye. "Jesus, but ya look like 'im. Fer a minute there, I thought . . ."  
  
"I know," I said softly, when he fell silent. "And I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I'm not used to running into people who remember him when he was younger, when he looked like me, I mean."  
  
He paused for a moment, raising his eyes to follow the spiral path of a huge hawk, riding a thermal updraft. "Always looked like ya, even when he wasn't a kid no more. 'Cept that y'er a li'l taller, an' he was . . . ."  
  
He fell silent abruptly, and I pretended that I didn't know what he'd almost said.  
  
I knew that my daddy was prettier - a little bit.  
  
I studied his profile, sharp against the clouds banked over the northern horizon, and saw traces of the man he had once been: the man in the portrait - Daddy's golden cowboy. But the traces were smudged and poorly defined, like shadows fading into twilight. Dark blonde curls were liberally streaked with gray and thinning at the crown, and matted from a lifetime of wearing hats like the one he clutched in his right hand. The corners of the eyes and mouth drooped into a labyrinth of crevices and creases in skin browned and weathered by fifty years of exposure to the unforgiving severity of the Wyoming climate, and nobody would ever have mistaken them for laugh lines. This was not a face that had laughed often or well. The clothes he wore - sharply creased Levi's, coffee-colored Tony Lama boots, and a snap-front western shirt in a rust and amber plaid with dark braid trim - attested to his improved economic status, as did the late-model Ford truck parked down the hill, but there was still something about him - indefinable but pronounced - which identified him as a product of a world of hard knocks and hunger. Still lean and jerky-tough, he nevertheless showed signs of wear - in the column of the spine no longer quite so straight, in the favoring of the left knee over the right, in the crepey looseness of skin around his throat, and the hunch of shoulders that spoke of a lifetime spent ducking away from face-to-face square offs . He seemed to squint constantly, and there appeared to be a fleshy protuberance over the inner corner of one eye that seemed to exacerbate the problem with his vision, causing him to tilt his head slightly to offset the imbalance.  
  
But still . . .  
  
Beneath all the marks left by the passage of time, all the slow deterioration and the accumulated damage, I finally saw it - in his eyes, perhaps, sable brown instead of the golden green I'd imagined, but still managing to give no quarter, or in the set of his jaw, speaking volumes of determination, or - maybe most of all - the way his gaze drifted from one object to another, but always returned to the simple white cross and the bright mounds of color around it. Daddy's golden cowboy - still there, after all these years.   
  
"You do this?" he finally asked, nodding toward the riot of blossoms.  
  
I dropped to my knees, fighting off a strange urge to throw myself face-first into the lush foliage and shout to make myself heard, to make sure the right person heard and listened and understood that his time had come around at last.  
  
"Not me," I answered, plucking a couple of wilted tulips from sturdy stems. "My grandma, with a little help from her brother. The lilac - that's mine. She did the rest."  
  
"All them years," he said, in a voice barely more than a whisper. "Looked like nobody cared much. Whut changed?"  
  
"The old man died," I said sharply. "That's what made the difference."  
  
He nodded, then looking at me with a strange, speculative gleam in his eyes. "Sorry fer yer loss," he offered, in a voice that announced - loudly - that he wasn't really sorry at all.  
  
I laughed and saw his breath catch in his throat, and realized that I had once again reminded him of my father. Mama always claimed we sounded exactly alike when we laughed, although - truth to tell - he hadn't spent much time laughing the last few months of his life. "No loss to me, Mr. Del Mar," I replied.  
  
He knelt then, careful to brace one knee with his hand as he went down, and spent a moment studying my face. "Ya really are like 'im, ain't ya?"  
  
"If you're askin' if I hated my grandfather as much as my daddy did, I guess the answer's no. But only because I didn't know him nearly so well. If I had, I'm pretty sure he'd a been at the top of my shit list - just like Daddy's."  
  
For a moment, he didn't respond at all; then he smiled, and it's only a bit of an exaggeration to say that it was like sunrise over the mountains, lighting his face with a gentle sweetness that somehow provided a hint of all that my father had seen in him all those long years passed.  
  
"Y'er more like 'im than I ever thought ya'd be."   
  
At that moment, he remembered the armful of flowers he'd brought with him, and he retrieved them from where they'd fallen, and shifted to lay them against the base of the simple little marker, at the head of the grave. He closed his eyes for a while, and when I saw his lips move, even though he made no sound, I knew that he was speaking from the heart and that what he was saying was not meant for me to hear.  
  
So I waited until he opened his eyes to stare once more at the metal marker on the cross.  
  
"My mama just passed away, a couple weeks ago," I said softly, and I saw him wince, as if in pain.  
  
"Sorry, Bobby," he said, after a while. "Yer daddy - he used t' call her his yella rose a Texas. Reckon she must a been a real purty lady."  
  
"Yes," I agreed, "she was. That's what this rose is, you know. I mean this is one of the real, original yellow roses of Texas."  
  
He looked at the bright blooms, even reached out to touch one of them. "Don't seem right," he said finally, allowing his hand to drop into his lap. "Don't seem like somethin' that belongs in Texas ought a be growin' here, when . . . ."  
  
And, again, the words went unspoken, but I heard them anyway. _When something that belonged in Wyoming couldn't be allowed to live in Texas.  
_  
I waited for a while, just watching the morning breeze weave through the foliage and set the jewel-bright blossoms dancing, dripping the last of the rain onto the thirsty soil below, but finally, I felt compelled to speak. "Can you guess why I'm here?" I asked. "I mean, why I'm here now, with you?"  
  
Slowly he shook his head, head still tucked as he refused to meet my eyes. "Dunno."  
  
And I realized that he was not going to make this easy for me, even if he did have some inkling about what I wanted. Was it surprising, I wondered, that he could not entertain the possibility that I might understand what he had been to my father? Or was it just the same old story - an innate, Wyoming-spawned inability to adjudge such a relationship between two men as anything other than abomination, magnified a thousand-fold by being refracted and refocused through the prism of personal shame and intimate knowledge?  
  
It was time, I decided, to lay my cards on the table and pray that my meager hand would be good enough.  
  
"I know," I said softly, careful to avoid staring into his eyes, "what you were to my father."  
  
He did not move - not really. Yet I could almost follow the tightening of muscles as he stiffened. "Was m' friend," he mumbled slowly, after a pause. "Fer twenty years, 'e was . . ."  
  
"What? Your fishing buddy?" I snapped, trying to exercise patience, but failing miserably. "Is that what you told your family? That he was just somebody you met up with occasionally? Once or twice a year?"  
  
He looked up then, and there was no mistaking the rise of rage in eyes gone black and glossy. "You don't know nothin' about it."  
  
I got to my feet, and so did he, and I took some tiny measure of satisfaction in the fact that he had to look up to meet my eyes. "I know everything about it," I replied. "I know everything about you and what you were to him. I know what he was, and what you are."  
  
He stirred then, as if he wanted to step forward and push his face into mine and demand that I shut my mouth and take back the things I'd said.   
  
"The difference between us," I said, letting a strident note of impatience bleed into my own voice, "is that I'm not ashamed of him, and you are."  
  
He wanted to haul off and hit me at that moment. I saw it in the way his fists clinched, and the hardening of his jaw. But he forced himself to pull back, to think it through. Still, I could tell it was a near thing, and it was still a distinct possibility as he snapped his response. "You shut yer mouth, Boy. Ain't ashamed a Jack. Ain't gonna let ya say that, so . . ."  
  
"I came here," I said sharply, "to ask for your help. Not for me, but for him. So I guess that's really the bottom line here. If you care about him - or ever did care about him - it's time to step up and prove it."  
  
I watched as the truth struck him, as he realized what it was I wanted from him, and I almost felt sympathy for the flare of pain and dread in his eyes, but I couldn't let myself be swayed or distracted. "I made my mama a promise," I went on. "To do something for my daddy - to give him what he wanted, what she couldn't give him. But this is something I can't do without some help."  
  
My voice hardened then, and I knew he could hear my own anger as it surged in me as I stared at the man who should have been there to save my father from the venomous hatred of the cretins who had murdered him; should have been - and wasn't. And I thought it, even as I knew it wasn't true. But sometimes, the heart just needs something, or someone, to blame - a target for rage held too long in submission.  
  
"It's the least you can do."  
  
I expected him to flinch away from that taunt, to recoil from the venom of the accusation. But he didn't. He remained completely still, completely stone-faced. Even his eyes went cold - almost lifeless. But I waited, unable to believe that he could simply ignore the comment that was basically an indictment, one which he probably didn't deserve. But I found I couldn't bring myself to offer a retraction, or an assurance that I hadn't really meant it, because - in truth - I had. For many years, since the day I'd learned about the reason my father had been murdered, I had struggled to swallow my anger and my resentment that he had been killed for being a part of a pairing that his murderers could not tolerate, but he had not been paired in death, having died alone. Something in me had always wanted to cry out that it was unfair that the other half of the pair should live on untouched. But one look into Ennis Del Mar's eyes had made me understand that death might have spared him, but he had certainly not gone untouched. Nevertheless, in this circumstance, I was overwhelmed with rage that he would hesitate to leap into action, to fulfill my father's final wishes.  
  
The silence stretched on as he stared down at his feet, still as a marble carving. Then he took a deep, ragged breath. "I don't think . . ."  
  
"Are you saying that you won't help me?" I asked, not giving him time to complete his thought. "Is that what I'm hearing? I don't get it. You were willing to do it for him before. You came here after he died, to collect his ashes and take them up there. Wanting to honor his last wishes. What happened to change that? What happened . . . to you?"  
  
He turned away from me then, so rapidly that he stumbled, almost fell, and leaned forward, bracing his hands against his thighs. His voice was a strangled whisper. "I've only been back there once. In all these years - just once. An' I can't . . ."  
  
Something cold touched me then, a primitive, nameless dread. "What did you do?"  
  
He simply shook his head, careful to keep his face turned away from me.  
  
"You know something?" I said slowly, deliberately stepping back and looking down at the flowers massed on my father's grave. "I lied. You want to know what I really know about you? Given the fact that you were the focus of my dad's life for almost twenty years, it's pretty ridiculous how little I know. I know that you had a horse called Cigar Butt. I know that you killed an elk once or twice, so you must a been a pretty good shot. I know that you're good with horses and that you aren't much of a cook and couldn't catch a fish if your life depended on it. I know that you came from Wyoming, and you were an orphan, and you herded sheep with my dad up on that mountain in 1963 and you both drank Old Rose whiskey. And I guess I can add one more thing to that. I guess I know now that he spent all those years caring for somebody - loving somebody - who can only be bothered to remember him one day a year."  
  
"That's not so," he snapped, jerking around to face me, fury blazing in his eyes. "You don't know nothin'. You don't . . ."  
  
"Don't you dare tell me what I don't know," I snarled. "Let me show you what I know."  
  
I spun away then and went racing to the car where I pulled a paper-wrapped object from the back seat. As I stalked back toward him, I tore the paper from the package to expose the item concealed beneath it.  
  
"Do you recognize this?" I demanded, thrusting it toward him.   
  
He looked down at the object, and his face went chalk white as his eyes widened. "Where . . . where did that come from? How . . ."  
  
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the photograph - the original image of Daddy's Golden Cowboy - and held it out to him. When he took it from me, his hand was trembling so violently that he had to clutch at the picture to keep from dropping it.  
  
I studied his face as he stared at the painting, and I felt some small echo of the deep, stabbing pain that was evident in his eyes. "I never knew," he whispered. "I never even knew he had a picture of me."  
  
"Neither did I," I replied, refusing to allow myself to offer any nuance of sympathy. "When he brought that painting home, after a business trip to New Mexico, I thought it was just something that he'd come across, something that just struck his fancy. I didn't know better - not for sure - until I found that photograph hidden in his desk, a long, long time after he died."  
  
I paused for breath, and forced myself to go on, even though I was beginning to feel the stirring of pity, as I could read the devastation in his face. "But I should have known. I should have figured it out. Because I watched him walk into his little office every night of his life - every single night for the last six years of his life - and sit down at his desk and stare at that painting. He'd sit and drink whiskey and stare, and he'd get a look in his eyes, like he was somewhere else, somewhere far away, looking at something only he could see. And sometimes, I'd go in to tell him good night, or just to talk to him, and I'd have to call out to him two or three times before he'd hear me. And he'd look at me and smile, but not before I saw the awful sadness in his eyes."  
  
I fell silent for a while, to let it sink in. "I know what my daddy was. I didn't know then, but I sure as hell found out after he was gone. And I gotta tell you the truth, Mr. Del Mar. For a while, I hated him for it. For being something that got him killed, got him taken away from me. But I hated you more, even though I didn't really know who you were. I hated you more because you lived . . . and he didn't."  
  
He turned then and stared at me, something dark and resentful moving in his eyes. "But ya don't hate 'im no more?"  
  
"He was my daddy," I answered softly. "An' he loved me, and I finally realized that the fact that he also loved somebody else didn't change that. Although I still wasn't too fond of you. But now . . . now, I need you to help do this, for him."  
  
He shook his head. "What if . . . mebbe I could draw ya a map."  
  
"Oh, that would be great," I said acidly. "I could just drive up and pull off the side of the road, and dump his ashes out on the edge of the pavement. That would really be special."  
  
"I can't," he roared. "Don't ya understand that? He wouldn't want it. Not from me. Not any more."  
  
I felt something icy touch my spine, as I examined his face and read the emotion he was struggling to suppress. He was a man who had spent a lifetime hiding behind a façade of stoicism, a man for whom the term taciturn could have been coined, but there was no mistaking the harsh glitter of guilt in his eyes. "Maybe you're right. You seem to know something that I don't. But it doesn't matter, because it's really not up to you. All we can do is go by what he said. And I can promise you this much. One way or another, I'm going to do this. I'll find that mountain, with or without your help. But it's a fucking mountain, not some rinky-dink little Texas hill, so I have to assume it's pretty big. And there has to be someplace on it - some spot - that was special to him, and you're the only one who's going to know that."  
  
He turned away from me again, refusing to meet my eyes, and I couldn't quite suppress a sigh. "All right, Mr. Del Mar. Obviously, I can't force you to do this. Maybe I ought to be grateful to you for opening my eyes. Maybe I'm finally beginning to understand why he was so sad. Did he know that you didn't . . ." I paused then, as I found that I couldn't bring myself to say it.  
  
"My grandmother asked that you come up to see her," I said finally, when he remained stubbornly silent.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I don't know," I lied. "Should I just tell her you can't be bothered? That you can't spare a moment for Jack Twist's mother?"  
  
He flushed, and his eyes darkened. "Smart-mouth li'l bastard, ain't ya?"  
  
"My father's son," I retorted shortly.  
  
And for a tiny fragment of a moment, I saw the smile in his eyes and knew that I'd done it again, that my father's ghost was sitting on my shoulders . . . again. I took a deep breath and settled my Resistol on my head, ready to do whatever was necessary, use whatever weapon this man's conscience might provide for me, in order to grant Jack Twist's final request. I squared my shoulders and prepared for phase two of the battle plan.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Want some coffee, don't ya?" My grandmother's voice was clipped. Almost cold. But then she paused to take a deep breath, and sounded more herself when she continued. "Piece a cheesecake - or a brownie?"  
  
"Jus' coffee, Ma'am," Del Mar replied. "Can't stay long. Got a long drive ahead a me."  
  
"Yeah?" I knew I should probably keep my mouth shut, but I couldn't resist. "How long? Fourteen hours, maybe? Now that's a long drive."  
  
I saw his jaw line clench as he bit down on his angry retort, but it took him a few seconds to be able to swallow it. "Naw. Not that long. Livin' up in Montana now. A few hours from here."  
  
"Really?" Grandma Grace said softly. "Yer family up there with ya? I seem t' recall Jack sayin' ya had a couple a daughters. Is that right?"  
  
He leaned back in the old ladder-back chair, and it creaked beneath him as he accepted the cup of steaming coffee from her. "Yes'm, but they're not with me. All grown up now."  
  
She nodded. "An' yer wife?"  
  
He just shook his head.  
  
"I see," she said, settling herself in the chair adjacent to his as Chelsea and I stood at the cabinet, pouring coffee for ourselves. Chelsea had said virtually nothing since I'd come back to the house with Del Mar in the car beside me. My wonderfully intuitive lady had correctly identified the tension between us and elected to remain silent and reserve judgment until she had more understanding of the situation. But that didn't mean her protective instincts weren't on high alert. She could tell that I was angry and frustrated, and I wondered as I looked at her if Del Mar had any idea just how dangerous it was to bait a tigress on territory she considered her own.  
  
"You never remarried then," my grandmother continued. Not a question - an assumption.  
  
"No, ma'am."  
  
"He's a busy man though," I offered, making no attempt to disguise the note of contempt in my voice. "Real busy, I guess. Doesn't seem to have the time - or the inclination, maybe - to show me where to take Daddy's ashes."  
  
"Is that so?" Again, Grandma's tone was soft and weary, and I wondered if Del Mar could hear the old, tired pain that lay beneath its surface.  
  
"I . . ."  
  
But Grandma held up her hand to silence him as she turned to look up at me. "Bobby, Darlin', would ya mind if I speak t' Ennis alone? Fer jus' a minute?"  
  
My own anger and resentment and hurt flared to brilliant life for a moment, and I wanted to refuse her request. Wanted - well, truthfully - wanted to beat Del Mar to a bloody pulp to force him to give in to what I wanted. But I was ultimately too much Jack Twist's son, and unable to deny his mother whatever she might ask of me. So I took Chelsea's hand and lead her upstairs.  
  
But we didn't go far, settling ourselves at the top of the stairs. My grandmother would probably be appalled at such a lack of manners, but I was not going to be locked away from this discussion. But this way, she could preserve the illusion that I continued to live in blissful ignorance of my father's sexual orientation, and I was willing to allow her that.  
  
For a time, there was no sound from the kitchen, and I imagined that my grandmother was taking time to compose herself and organize her thoughts.  
  
"Ennis," she said finally, and I pictured him hunching his shoulders, preparing for the onslaught that he anticipated, "I know what my son was, and what you were t' him. He never told me much, but he was never very good at hidin' things. I never understood how it could a happened to 'im - or why - an' I spent a lot a time prayin' over it, an' wonderin' if it was 'cause a somethin' I done. Or somethin' his daddy done, maybe. But it never helped me t' understand it. But I did finally learn somethin' about my Jack. In th' end, it didn't matter t' me. He was still my Jack. My beautiful baby boy, and I loved 'im just th' same."  
  
Del Mar muttered something then, but it was too indistinct for me to catch.  
  
"I failed m' son, Ennis," Grandma went on after a period of silence, and I felt tears start in my eyes as I heard the certainty in her tone. "I was s'posed t' protect 'im, t' keep 'im safe from harm, an' I didn't. His daddy . . . I wish I could find an excuse fer John bein' th' way he was, but I can't. He jus' never . . ." She paused again, and I knew she was struggling to find the words to express a terrible truth. "I think he blamed Jack fer th' life he had t' give up when he became a father - almost as much as he blamed me - but it was Jack he took it out on, an' I'll go t' my grave knowin' that I should a stopped it. He was jus' a baby when it started. An' it never ended at all, not even when he was dead an' gone, and there was only one way t' honor his wishes. An' even then, his daddy couldn't . . ."  
  
"Ya done th' best ya could," Del Mar replied, obviously shaken. "Reckon Jack knew that."  
  
"He deserved better," she said firmly. Then she paused again, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Fer almost twenty years, I watched my son come home t' me, after he'd been with you. He never said much about ya, but he never really had to. I saw what was in 'is heart, and so did John, which only made things worse 'twixt the two a them. But then, as th' years went on, I started t' see somethin' else - somethin' that felt like a knife blade in m' heart. Ever time he come home, it was like the light in 'is eyes was a li'l bit dimmer, a li'l bit darker. Like somethin' inside 'im was dyin' by inches."  
  
Again she paused, and it was obvious that she was fighting back tears and holding on to her composure by her fingernails. "Then, when he come up here that last time, th' light was jus' gone. An' he was empty, and lost. An' something inside me was screamin' at me, an' tellin' me not t' let 'im go. T' hold on to 'im, and keep 'im here with me, where he'd be safe."  
  
I heard the creak of a chair, and I figured that Del Mar had risen to reach out to her, to offer comfort to someone who obviously was far beyond any ability to accept it. "When they called t' tell us, I knew before John told me. I knew when I saw his face."  
  
She fell silent for a time, as I started to rise, to go down to her and try to ease her anguish. But Chelsea grabbed my arm and held on, refusing to let me go. She pressed a kiss against my cheek to sooth me, but she held me firmly, obviously convinced that it was not yet time for me to intervene.  
  
"My husband . . ." There was a terrible bleak honesty in Grandma's voice. " He never mourned fer 'is son. That's th' kind a man he had turned into, a man too harsh an' cold an' bitter t' weep fer 'is only child."  
  
She must have stood up then, and moved to the kitchen window, as I heard the sound of her cup dropping into the sink. "So here's th' question fer ya, Ennis. Is that th' kind a man ya want a be? Jack - my beautiful Jack - gave ya twenty years a his life, an' I reckon ya cain't be blamed if ya didn't return 'is feelin's. Lots a folks 'd say that you was right t' deny somethin' so unnatural. But ya must not a denied it all, 'cause ya sure kep' comin' back, all them years. Did it mean anythin' t' you, Ennis? Did ya ever weep fer Jack? Are ya gonna turn yer back on 'im now, when he needs ya t' come back, jus' one more time? 'Cause it's certain that 'e won't never ask nothin' else from ya. This is yer last chance t' show that he meant somethin' to ya, that he mattered."  
  
At that moment, Chelsea let go of my arm and gave me a little push, and I realized that she was right. It was time.  
  
Del Mar was standing at the door, looking out into the midday brightness when I strode into the kitchen, and Grandma Grace was at the kitchen sink, face buried in her hands as she wept. I rushed over and wrapped her in my arms, as Chelsea paused at the foot of the stairs.  
  
"It's time, Mr. Del Mar," said my lovely bride-to-be, her voice firm but without any trace of condemnation. "If he ever meant anything to you - anything at all - you need to do this for him. You need to step up and . . ."  
  
He turned quickly, and there was no mistaking the terrible dread in his eyes. "You don't understand. He wouldn't want it. Not from me. Not any more."  
  
"Why?" she demanded. "Because you've found somebody to replace him? Is that what this is all about?"  
  
He refused to meet her gaze. "He wouldn't understand."  
  
"You know what's truly ironic?" Chelsea asked, very gently. "I never even got a chance to meet him, but I seem to know him better than you do, even after twenty years together. Do you really believe that Jack Twist - the man who loved you with his whole heart - would condemn you for going on with your life, after he was gone? Can you really believe that he would have wanted you to remain alone and miserable?"  
  
But he seemed adamant, just repeating the same mantra. "You just don't understand."  
  
I wiped the tears from my grandmother's face, marveling in the softness of skin that had endured seventy-odd years of the Wyoming climate, but noticing as I did so that she suddenly looked every year of her age, and then some. Then I moved forward to stand directly in front of my father's lover. "Jesus!" I said softly. "You never really knew him at all. Did you?"  
  
I waited, but it seemed that the final volley had been fired, and the war was over and lost.  
  
"Go home, Del Mar," I said finally, suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. "But this time, you stay there. Don't come back here, because my father won't be here if you do. He's going with me, back to his mountain. The one that meant so much to him, and apparently meant nothing at all to you."  
  
I looked into his face, and saw that his eyes were unfocused, as if he were staring at something that none of the rest of us could see.  
  
"I gotta . . ." He stopped, swallowing hard and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, before starting again. "I gotta make a few arrangements, at home." Then he looked up at me, and I saw it again - the shadow of the man who had been my father's world, peering out at me from the depths of sable-colored eyes. "You meet me in Signal, two weeks from today. Bring your campin' gear, 'cause it's a two-day ride. You do ride, don't ya?"  
  
I felt something break loose inside me, like a dam had crumbled to release a reservoir full of lost hopes and foreboding. "My father's son," I replied with a smile.  
  
And he looked at me - like a starving man would stare at a banquet table - and let me see, for just a moment, how he must have looked at my dad. "No doubt about that," he whispered, reaching out to touch my cheek, and I allowed it, recognizing it for the homage it was.   
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

TBC

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**  
  
_Ah, had I not taken my life up and given  
All that life gives and the years let go,   
The wine and honey, the balm and leaven,   
The dreams reared high and the hopes brought low?   
Come life, come death, not a word be said;   
Should I lose you living, and vex you dead?   
I never shall tell you on earth; and in heaven,   
If I cry to you then, will you hear or know?  
  
\-- The Triumph of Time_ \-- Algernon Charles Swinburne  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The sun was a globe of molten lava, seeking to bury itself in the density of the old growth forest beyond the river, by the time Ennis crested the hill that looked down on the cluster of buildings that formed the Busted Flush Ranch, nestled into the center of the valley that surrounded it like a cupped hand, with rough streams running like veins across its breadth. Beyond the dark bulk of the forest, curling up toward the Northeast, the peaks of the Judith Mountains caught fire in the late brilliance, and glittered like jewels in the angled sunlight, as a faint sylvan mist rose and hovered above the meadows stretching out to the north, marking the near borders of the great river. Off to the South, the Big Snowys were already smudged with night, hulking shadows reaching up to embrace the twilight.  
  
It was late; he was late, and he had not bothered to stop and phone ahead to let his partner know that he would not be arriving home at the expected hour. He was aware of an urgency - a twisting in his gut that demanded that he hurry. Nevertheless, when the urge struck him, he pulled off on the shoulder of the road, at the top of the first loop of the gravel lane that snaked its way down the hill. He recognized the opening bars of _Does Fort Worth Ever Cross your Mind?_ on the radio, and sat for a while, listening as George Strait lamented the fact that cold beer doesn't cure jealousy, and wondering -- for at least the ten thousandth time - why the fuck so many songs had to be about Texas . . . or blue eyes ( _Cryin'in the Rain_?) . . . or rodeo cowboys . . . or why there had to be comic strips called Smilin' Jack or restaurants named Jack-in-the-Box. Then he shook off his morbid musing, realizing that it wouldn't make a bit of difference if he never heard another song again, or read another newspaper or passed another billboard; there would still be runty little dogs, and herds of sheep, and cans of beans, and harmonica music (badly played) or Pentecostal hymns (badly sung) and hail storms and bull riders and a hundred other things to trip him up; the world would always contain countless prompts that would tug relentlessly at his memories and animate a soft-focus figure to walk through his dreams.  
  
He stared down toward the ranch - seeing everything, and seeing nothing - and allowed his thoughts to wander a bit as he speculated on how much his life partner might have figured out about the gentle specter that still dwelled in the fringes of Ennis' mind - always silent and unobtrusive, but never really completely gone. He wondered if Mike was still haunted by uncertainties generated by that pale ghost, and then wondered if he really wanted to know.  
  
There was a light shining in the main stable, and several more aglow in the bunkhouse, and Ennis could pick out dark silhouettes moving through the gloaming, finishing up their day and heading in for the evening meal, as the horses in the largest corral, freshly fed and brushed, settled for the night, enjoying the quickening of the evening breeze and the freedom to stretch weary tendons and muscles in aimless ambling.   
  
Ennis took a deep breath, and told himself that he couldn't really detect the aroma of chili and cornbread, but he could close his eyes and visualize it, along with the big bowl of cole slaw and some of Pop Cal's warm cherry cobbler, topped off with a mound of vanilla ice cream. He wondered if Mike was planning to eat with the crew tonight, and decided that he rather hoped so. He wasn't much in the mood for the more refined meals that Miss Cora usually prepared in the kitchen of the big house, and he knew that, if he drove in before Mike finished up for the day, he could probably pressure his partner into settling for the simpler fare in the company of the ranch hands.  
  
Probably. Usually.  
  
Mike ordinarily gave in to Ennis' wants and desires. But not always.  
  
The definitive example of one of the times when he had not done so was the beautiful spread laid out below him: the Busted Flush. When they had decided, early in 1992, that the opportunity to buy the Montana ranch was just too good to pass up, Ennis had wanted to leave it with the name bestowed by its original owners: Twin Hills Ranch. But Mike had objected - strenuously - insisting that he was not going to brand his cattle and horses with something that looked like a McDonald's logo, and Ennis had not bothered to argue much. But then, Mike had come up with his suggestion for a new name, and it had been Ennis' turn to object - also strenuously.  
  
Who in his right mind, he'd demanded, named a ranch after a losing poker hand? But Mike had been adamant, and Ennis had ultimately been unable to refute his argument. Why should they worry about tempting misfortune with an unlucky name when they had been lucky enough to find each other, Mike reasoned, and he rather liked the idea of thumbing their noses at the vagaries of Fate. At that point, even though Ennis might have continued to argue, Mike had used a tried-and-true method for distracting his partner, and, by the time Ennis had remembered to bring it up again, it was a done deal, with new branding irons already commissioned and a new sign ready to erect over the front gate.  
  
The Busted Flush Ranch - Michael Stansbury and Ennis Del Mar, proprietors - was a thriving horse and cattle ranch, producing a limited number of well-bred and well-trained quarter horses every year, along with a fine, healthy herd of Red Brangus cattle.  
  
Ennis looked down at the valley, and felt a deep sense of longing settle over him. He had truly come a long way since he had first heard - and rejected - the suggestion of a "little cow and calf operation", and he didn't often allow himself to think back to that moment. He had built himself a good life, with a man who loved him, a man he loved, and it was a waste of time and effort to lament what could have been, if he'd only had the courage to reach for it. There was no going back.  
  
_But_ , whispered the insidious little voice that sometimes erupted in his mind _, if you could go back, would you?  
_  
He did not allow himself to answer - had never allowed himself to answer - but, as he keyed the ignition to start the truck to complete the last leg of his journey, a quick mental image of a mischievous smile and a brilliant spark in crystal blue eyes caused him to shake his head sharply and tell himself to concentrate on the road, and the greeting he would get from his man when he pulled to a stop in the driveway of the big two-story ranch house. Maybe Mike would be resting on the wooden swing that they had hung on the deep front porch that ran the width of the house, where they often sat together to watch the onset of a thunderstorm or welcome the first snowfall of winter or simply wait for moonrise.  
  
Ennis hoped he would find his partner there; more than that, he needed to find his partner there, to help him to refocus - to remember his priorities.  
  
No matter how much he wanted to do the right thing for Jack, and for Bobby, and for Jack's mother, the simple truth was that Jack was dead. And there was no getting around that, and no making up for old wrongs, no matter how much he might wish it.  
  
He eased out onto the road, suddenly eager to get home . . .   
  
_"I wish I knew how to quit you."_  
  
The memory struck with the force of a tidal wave, with exactly the same devastating impact felt at the moment he had first heard those words so many years before, only this time it was sharper and clearer than it had been for a long, long time, honed by his recent encounter with the young man who was almost the spitting image of his father - enough so to restore little details about Jack that Ennis thought he'd lost forever. But now, in the restored clarity of recall, he could not do what he had done way back then; he could not harden his heart and refuse to recognize the foundation of loneliness and pain from which the words had sprung. Helpless to suppress the recollection and racked with regret, he could only slam on his brakes and ride out the images coalescing in his mind.  
  
_"Then why don't ya? Why don't ya jus' let me be, huh?"  
_  
Physically, the revelation had been like a kick in the gut, like a blade slicing through him as he stood poised on the precipice, the fine edge of disaster, looking down into every nightmare he'd endured over the last twenty years. It was instinct that took over as he went numb with dread - instinct that moved him to where he had to go, to protect what he could not risk, to armor his heart.  
  
_"It's because a you, Jack, that I'm like this . . . 'm nothin' . . . 'n nowhere."_  
  
Blinded by tears, struggling to remain upright, then hearing the swift approach of footsteps, as he'd known he would. As he'd intended. When, after all, had Jack Twist ever failed to respond to Ennis' need, just as he had been conditioned to do, over all those long years? Ennis sometimes wondered if the man to whom he'd totally surrendered his heart, to have and to hold - to break or mangle or preserve or cherish in any way he might have wished - had ever realized the truth. Had he ever stopped to figure out how easily and how often he'd been manipulated and forced to feel a guilt he never should have been asked to bear?  
  
Loving hands reaching out; soft voice murmuring - and the violent response - guaranteed to erase any lingering trace of indignation or righteous anger and overwrite it with the kind of burning guilt that would make Jack forget everything except a need to make things right - for Ennis; to soothe the pain - for Ennis; and - above all - to subjugate his own needs and hurts - for Ennis.  
  
_"Get th' fuck off a me."_  
  
And then, the arms, the firm, strong body that would not be denied or pushed away, and the voice, saying what it always said. "It's all right. It's all right." Interspersed, of course, with, "Damn you, Ennis!" But they both knew that the cussing was just for show, just a means to disperse the tension, to find a way to step back from the edge of the abyss on which they'd teetered, a means of letting sleeping dogs settle back to lie - undisturbed - one more time.  
  
_"I jus' can't stand this no more, Jack."  
_  
He heard it all - saw it all - again; exactly as it had happened twelve years earlier, and he wasn't quite agile enough, mentally, to avoid the one thought that always struck him hard and left him reeling with the awful ache of it. He could not have known that it would all be for the last time, that he would never get the chance to take it back, to unsay the things he'd said, even though he'd known as he spat out the words that he didn't mean them, that it was all a means to an end, to keep Jack under control, to maintain the way things had to be in order to avoid the awful dangers that were always lurking out there in the real world, waiting for either of them to miss a step, to reveal a weakness - to blink.  
  
How could he have foreseen that everything he did, every action he took to try to avoid the things he feared the most, would ultimately be futile - that Jack would die anyway, struck down in his prime, no matter how hard Ennis had tried to shield him and protect him and keep him safe? Keep them both safe.  
  
How could he know that he would never get the chance to say he was sorry?   
  
And now a different memory whispered to him - recent and fresh and vivid - offered in a different voice: _"Then, when he came up here that last time, th' light was jus' gone. An' he was empty, and lost."  
_  
As the voice faltered and fell silent, he was instantly plunged into the last bit of memory - the one he almost never allowed himself to experience, the unkindest recollection of all.  
  
Jack kneeling, offering comfort and acceptance, and himself surging to his feet, dragging Jack, off balance and staggering, up with him and claiming that soft, tempting mouth, silencing any chance of more words being uttered, to inflict more pain, ravishing those lips and reveling in the taste that would never be duplicated, never be equaled, and never again be experienced - Jack's kiss, the essence of the surrender of Jack Twist, and the taste of a love never spoken or acknowledged, but real and vital nonetheless. Pulling away, and seeing the devastation in those incredible eyes and knowing that he had put it there.  
  
Jack's mother's words echoed in his mind, repeating like the refrain of a sad song, and he knew exactly what she had meant. He had been there, after all, when it happened.  
  
It was the last time he'd ever seen that face, except in the depths of his dreams, where it was always awaiting him, always looking at him with eyes in which the light of hope had flickered in that moment and gone forever dark.  
  
He had seen death in Jack's face that day, and had forced himself to turn his back and drive away and leave him there, alone and empty. And lost.  
  
Ennis sat in his truck as the evening deepened and violet shadows settled around him, gut-punched by the images that kept flashing in his mind, refusing to be ignored.  
  
How could he do this? How could he ask . . . He put his head down on the steering wheel and searched for the right words.  
  
He didn't find them.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Not sitting on the front porch or relaxing on the swing after all. No. Mike was draped over the fence of the main stable-yard, chin braced on his crossed forearms when Ennis drove in, watching as his 18-year-old son, Ronnie, dismounted from a young sorrel filly, who was still frisky enough to resist the bit and resent her rider. When she would have nipped at the young man's fingers as he removed her bridle, Mike chuckled, and turned to meet Ennis' eyes.  
  
"Low startle point," he observed.  
  
Ennis refused to allow any more memories to surge into his mind; he'd endured enough of those already during this interminable day.  
  
"Be firm there, Ron," Ennis called out. "But gentle. Let 'er know who's boss, but go easy. If she panics, it's no good fer nobody."  
  
Ronnie's eyes - storm gray and thick-lashed and surprisingly dark under bright auburn hair - were wide with uncertainty as he reached up and wrapped his fingers into the horse's silver-white mane while the other hand stroked the warm softness from her throatlatch down to her chest.  
  
"Don't be shy, Boy," Mike directed, his voice gruff and oddly tense. "She ain't no shrinkin' violet, an' pettin' her like she was a pussy is only gonna tell 'er that y'er scared."  
  
Ennis glanced at Mike, and surprised a look of annoyance in ice blue eyes. "Y'er doin' fine with 'er, Ron, but don't push too hard. She's still skittish, jus' like she ought a be. Fresh broke don't mean spirit broke. Why don't ya jus' lead her around a bit, t' cool 'er off. Then take 'er in an' brush 'er down. In a week, she'll be eatin' out a yer hand."  
  
Ronnie Stansbury looked up at Ennis, eyes suddenly soft with hope. "Ya really think so, Ennis?"  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Ennis saw that Mike turned away, rolling his eyes, but he ignored his partner's churlish behavior, and responded to the young man's question with a nod and a smile.  
  
When youth and horse had moved away from the fence, Ennis turned to study Mike's face and didn't bother to hide his annoyance. "What the fuck's wrong with you?" he asked, his voice low-pitched and harsh. Night was falling swiftly, and Mike was only a paler shadow against the gloom - a blur of chambray work shirt and dark jeans and the Red Sox baseball cap he favored when he was doing chores around the ranch - but there was no mistaking the icy glint in eyes gone opaque and steely with suspicion, and Ennis was stricken by the sudden realization that the deep blue he had once compared to the lovely warm color of Jack's eyes had hardened over the years and grown colder.  
  
Instead of answering Ennis' question, Mike turned and leaned back against the fence, and looked up the hill toward the entrance to the ranch. "Wondered how long ya was gonna hang around up there before ya decided a drive on in."  
  
Ennis felt a flush creep up his neck and touch his face with uncomfortable warmth. "Jus' stretchin' m' legs."  
  
"Uh-huh," Mike replied, obviously skeptical. "Two minutes from home, an' ya couldn't wait? Must a been a hell of a trip."  
  
Ennis moved to the fence, and propped one booted foot on the bottom railing. "Yeah. You could say that."  
  
Wordlessly, Mike moved up beside him, and assumed an identical position, pausing to light one cigarette, then another, passing one of the Marlboros over to his life partner, before settling in, his shoulder brushing Ennis' arm. "What happened, Ennis?"  
  
"What makes ya think somethin' happened? Out a the ordinary, I mean?"  
  
Mike turned and looked directly into Ennis' eyes. "You think I can't tell - in a skinny minute - when somethin's botherin' you? After all these years, ya think I don't know ya well enough t' scope it out when somethin's wrong? Sooo, ya gonna tell me, or are we gonna dance around it all night while ya figure out how t' say what y'er not sayin'?"  
  
Ennis' only response was a sigh as he rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefingers and wished he could just find a quiet corner to disappear into.  
  
"Jack Twist," snapped Mike. "That's what this is about. That's what it's always about. When are you goin' t' . . ."  
  
It had been a long time - years even - since Ennis had lost control of his temper to the point of physical violence, but he had not forgotten the sensation of rage racing through his bloodstream like boiling steam. "Stop!" he said coldly. "Jus' . . ."  
  
"When does it end, Ennis?" Mike interrupted, twisting his body and moving forward until he could brace his hands on the fence rail, creating a cage around his partner's shoulders. "How many years before you let 'im go? Before you understand that he . . ."  
  
"He's dead, Mike," Ennis ground out through clinched teeth, suddenly overwhelmed with frustration and a silence held too long. "Dead. Dead, dead, dead. Ain't that enough fer ya? Do I have t' hate 'im too, before ya'll be satisfied?"  
  
Mike recoiled, as if he'd been hit with a closed fist. "Hate 'im?" he echoed. "Is that what ya think I want from ya?"  
  
"Ain't it?" Ennis almost snarled. "Ain't that what ya always wanted? Ain't that why we had t' . . "  
  
"Had t' what?" Mike's voice was just a whisper.  
  
But Ennis did not respond, lifting his eyes to stare off into the last flicker of sunset in the West instead of meeting his partner's gaze, and noticing then that Mike's son had gone stiff and frozen within the corral, his eyes wide with fear. He was too far away to hear what was being said, but it was obvious that he had heard enough to understand the hostility radiating from the two men.   
  
'Had t' what?" Mike repeated, lunging forward and wrapping his arms around Ennis' shoulders and jerking him forward, barely managing to ignore the concern in Ronnie's expression and the near panic in his posture.  
  
"Stop it, Mike," Ennis snapped. "Th' hands, Ronnie . . ."  
  
Mike's chuckle was sharp and harsh. "Goddammit, Ennis! Ya think they ain't figgered it out b' now? We sleep in th' same bed an' ain't neither one a us been with a woman fer six years. I think they know we fuck . . ."  
  
"Mebbe so," Ennis replied coldly, "but that don' mean we gotta flaunt it an' shove it in their faces. Ain't fittin'. Yer boy . . ."  
  
"Is my concern." For a long moment, the two simply stared at each other, and Mike knew immediately that he'd made a mistake, but that it was too late to take it back. Finally, he felt a cold unease settle in his stomach. "You ashamed a me, Ennis? Ashamed a us?"  
  
More anger flashed in dark amber eyes, although no verbal answer was forthcoming.  
  
Mike took a deep breath, before stepping back and dropping his arms to his sides. "All right then. Have it yer way, but ya still ain't answered m' question. What is it y'er talkin' about - what we had t' do?"  
  
Ennis still refused to meet the eyes of the man who had become the center of his existence, understanding that to do so might reveal more than he wished to share. "I saw 'im t'day," he whispered, barely able to summon the words. " He . . ."  
  
"What?" Mike stumbled backwards, suddenly almost unable to summon up enough air with which to speak, as if he'd been sucker punched and left gasping. "What did you say?"  
  
A strange deadly calm seemed to wrap itself around Ennis at that moment, enabling him to answer without inflection. "Fer jus' one minute, I saw 'im, an' I thought . . ."  
  
He looked up then and watched as Mike's eyes filled with thick, writhing shadows, a miasma of anguish. "He's dead," came the whispered response. "You said he was dead. You promised . . ."  
  
"I said it," Ennis answered, feeling tenderness swell within him as he realized how much pain he'd just inflicted on the person who had committed no sin except to love the man who had first been loved by Jack Twist, "an' it's true. He is dead, but I saw 'im jus' the same. Wasn't really him. Was 'is son, Bobby. But for jus' that one second . . ."  
  
Mike turned away, and reached out to brace himself against the fence post, trying to suppress the tremor in his hands, and to find the breath to speak firmly. He glanced up to see Ronnie start toward him, and raised his hand, signaling the youth to keep his distance, before offering his response, his voice thick and heavy with grief. "He came back t' you. For jus' that moment. That's what you felt, wasn't it?"  
  
Ennis nodded, unable to verbalize what was stirring in his heart.  
  
It was Mike's turn, apparently, to be unwilling to meet his partner's eyes. Instead, he watched Ronnie lead the sorrel filly into the stable before speaking again. "An' you forgot everything else, didn't ya? Fer that minute, you forgot me."  
  
"No." However loudly the voice inside him might insist that he concede the truth of those words, Ennis could not simply remain silent, and allow Mike to believe them. "No, I didn't ferget ya." His voice was suddenly gentle, and filled with remorse. "I'd never ferget ya, Darlin'. You know that."  
  
"Then what . . ."  
  
"I remembered him," Ennis admitted with a sigh. "Remembered everythin' that I'd let myself forget. An' realized somethin' I should a known."  
  
"I don't . . ."  
  
"I love ya, Mike, and I told myself, back when we first met, that th' only way fer me t' really love ya, t' really give myself t' you, was t' let 'im go. T' leave 'im in th' past an' turn 'im into somebody I used t' know."  
  
For a while, neither of them said anything more, but both realized that the conversation had only just begun.  
  
Mike crossed his arms, hugging himself against the falling chill of the evening, and looked down, eyes staring into nothing. "An' now?"  
  
Ennis reached out and laid a gentle hand on his partner's shoulder. "Now," he answered, "I know I was wrong."  
  
Mike moved suddenly, shrugging Ennis' hand off and stalking off into the darkness. "Y'er thinkin' about Brokeback," he called back over his shoulder, his voice strident with a wild mix of emotions that was threatening to overwhelm him. "Y'er thinkin' about what we did up there."  
  
Ennis started to argue, but then he realized that it was useless to deny it. Even though he had resisted calling up and examining that memory, it was nevertheless right there, just beneath the surface of his mind - waiting.  
  
Mike paused and turned back to study Ennis' face, peering through the growing darkness to read the expression in night-dark eyes. "Y'er wonderin' why, why it had a be that way."  
  
But Ennis had said all he meant to say, for the moment, although they both understood that there was a larger issue here - a confrontation that they could not avoid for much longer. But both decided that they would turn away from it, for just a little while longer.  
  
"Ya hungry, Amigo?" asked Mike, reaching out to touch his partner's chin. "Betcha didn't eat all day, did ya?"  
  
Ennis sighed, consciously forcing his shoulders and torso to relax, and allowed himself to be coaxed toward the house, feeling a little bit like a coward for not finishing the conversation, but relieved just the same to put off the final conflict, for a little while.  
  
"Come on, Ronnie," Mike called out, as they walked away from the corral. "Miss Cora ain't gonna be happy if supper gets cold on the table."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Ennis sighed and resisted the urge to open his belt and let his stomach expand as it would. As she was sometimes wont to do, Cora had surprised him tonight, by anticipating his need for simple fare. In the past, she had joked, once or twice, that it was the Shoshone in her that sometimes allowed her to know things without being told. Ennis was never entirely sure if she was joking, or if there might be more than a grain of truth in what she said, but she had certainly put her intuition to good use on this occasion, providing exactly the type of robust food he needed: a hearty beef stew with spuds and carrots, baked beans - sweet and glistening with honey and molasses - deviled eggs and sliced tomatoes, and fluffy home-made biscuits, with a dessert course of bread pudding swimming in a rich, whisky-flavored sauce, all washed down with her special lemonade.  
  
Ennis had watched with quiet amusement over the years as Mike had fought his battle against the tendency to bulge and counted himself lucky that he had never had to face that particular worry. And before Mike, there had been Jack, who . . .  
  
He deliberately cut that thought off before it was completely formed, and concentrated on the way the light from the overhead light fixture struck sparks of gold from his partner's hair, which seemed to grow thicker and brighter with every passing year. Mike had aged well, he thought. At fifty-seven, he was still a ruggedly handsome cowboy, a bit better padded than when they'd first met, but still a fine figure of a man.  
  
"Coffee, Mr. Ennis?" Cora rose from her seat at the table and cleared away the dessert plates, all scraped so clean that they barely needed washing.  
  
"Don't know if I got room, Miss Cora," he answered, looking up into her serene face so characteristic of her people with its strong profile and cinnamon skin, smooth and almost unlined despite the years betrayed by the streaks of gray in ebony hair.  
  
"Always room fer coffee," she replied firmly.  
  
"Fer me too, Cora?" Ronnie's grin was borderline sassy.  
  
"Guess I gotta admit it," she answered, with a theatrical sigh as she filled two cups from the old-fashioned, drip-style coffeepot waiting on the sideboard. "Eighteen means grown, I reckon. But you could still have more lemonade, if ya want it."  
  
The boy flushed and nodded. "Guess I'll wait fer breakfast fer coffee."  
  
"Good choice," she replied, her smile very gentle, as she handed Ennis and Mike their cups.  
  
Ronnie accepted the lemonade refill gratefully, and drank as if he had not just finished a full three-course meal complete with a glassful with each course. "Hey, Ennis," he said, when the glass was half-empty, "gonna show my calf at the 4-H fair week-end after next."  
  
"Good fer you, Bud," Ennis answered, saying exactly what the boy expected him to say, but it was obvious that he was only half-way paying attention. Ronnie looked puzzled, and glanced toward his father for enlightenment.  
  
Mike hesitated, and was instantly annoyed with himself for being afraid to ask - and afraid not to. "Melanie's comin' in from Laramie that week-end too. You gonna be here fer that?"  
  
Ennis' gaze was suddenly riveted to the surface of his coffee. "Reckon not. Got a . . . errand I gotta take care of."  
  
Mike simply stirred his coffee for several long seconds, apparently weighing his response. "Errand, huh? What kind a errand?"  
  
"Yeah, Ennis," Ronnie added. "I was hopin' ya'd be here t' . . ."  
  
"Ronnie," Mike said quickly, "I'm jus' thinkin' that I fergot t' lock up the equipment shed. Would ya run out an' check on it fer me?"  
  
"But I . . ."  
  
"Now, please." His daddy's voice was firm, but not harsh.  
  
The boy grumbled, but he went.  
  
"I'll just go put the food away," said Cora Littletree. "Leave you two t' . . . whatever."  
  
Mike smiled as she disappeared into the kitchen. "Smart woman," he observed.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"What errand?"  
  
Ennis took a deep breath before looking up to meet his life partner's eyes. "Gotta go back t' Brokeback, Mike. Gotta take Jack's ashes back, to the place he wanted t' be."  
  
Mike nodded, once more playing with his spoon, something pale and skittish moving in his eyes. "Well, I guess I know now whut ya meant, don't I? About what we had t' do'."  
  
Ennis nodded and managed a half-smile. "Guess ya do. Y'er a smart fella, Darlin', so I'm purty sure ya figgered it out."  
  
"Ya figger we was trespassin' on sacred ground. Don't ya?"  
  
Ennis flinched, knowing how hard it was for Mike to think of what they had done on the mountain as some kind of sacrilege. "I jus' don't understand why we had t' . . ."  
  
"Do you know," Mike said sharply, "what you said t' me th' first time we were together?"  
  
Ennis looked confused. "Reckon I said a lot a things, but . . ."  
  
Mike's smile was rueful. "Ennis, ya ain't never said 'a lot a things' in yer life. Not even then. Not even when y'er comin' like a geyser."  
  
Ennis tried to ignore the scarlet flush that was blooming in his cheeks. "Then what . . ."  
  
"Ya said all the right things that night, almost. More than I ever expected ya would. But then, just as ya fell asleep, ya kind a tucked yer face into yer arm, and ya said, 'Night, Jack'."  
  
Ennis felt a sudden rush of pain rise within him, knowing how much it must have hurt his companion to be called by that name. His voice was rough and heavy with remorse. "Aw, Jesus! Mike, I didn't . . ."  
  
"Didn't what?" Mike interrupted. "Didn't mean it? Or jus' didn't mean t' say it out loud."  
  
Ennis tucked his head and stared down at his own hands as they clinched and unclinched in his lap. "I don' know whut t' say. 'M sorry, Mike. Ya have t' know I didn't say it t' hurt ya. I . . ."  
  
"You still do."  
  
"Whut?" There was an edge of panic in Ennis' voice as his eyes widened, and he looked up to study his partner's expression.  
  
"In yer sleep. Ya still call 'is name."  
  
At that point, Ennis knew that there was nothing more that he could offer that would make any difference.  
  
"Earlier," said Mike, rising to his feet and bracing his hands against the table, "ya asked me if I wanted ya t' hate 'im. If it wasn't enough that he's dead. Do ya really think that's why I insisted that we had t' go back t' that mountain, so that you'd learn t' hate 'im?"  
  
"I don't know," Ennis said softly. "I don't think I ever knew. I tol' myself that I needed t' let go a all that him 'n me had - everythin' that we had together - but it never felt right t' me. I never was able t' believe that it was . . ."  
  
With a sharp breath that was almost a sob, Mike turned and went to a small antique cabinet in the corner of the dining room and opened the bottom drawer, from which he extracted a small manila envelope.  
  
Then he hesitated before turning to walk back to the table, his breathing uneven and his steps uncertain, as if he wasn't sure he was doing the right thing. Still, he moved forward and stopped just beyond Ennis' reach.  
  
"I never hated 'im, Ennis," he said, barely audible. "An' I knew you never could. I even knew that he was th' only reason I was able t' have you. If you'd never lost Jack Twist, and if you'd never had 'im t' begin with, you'd a still been locked away inside yerself, alone an' miserable an' unable to admit t' what y' are. Whatever we have - the two a us - we have because a Jack Twist."  
  
Then he opened the envelope and pulled out a single photograph, leaned forward, and laid it on the table in front of Ennis.  
  
The silence in the room was suddenly thick and stifling as Ennis looked down and felt the world recede from his consciousness as he fell into eyes the color of a twilight sky, eyes unlike any other he'd ever seen.  
  
"Where'd you get this?" he whispered, barely breathing, simply staring, afraid to touch the picture, afraid it would turn out to be nothing more than a mirage, a figment of wishful thinking.  
  
"Wasn't that hard t' find," answered Mike, deliberately not noticing the expression on his partner's face. "Knew his name an' where he lived an' worked. Family was purty well known down there - lots a pictures in the local paper an' all. Wasn't hard t' git a copy."  
  
Then he looked down and studied the face of Jack Twist, smiling gently and looking out from under the brim of a dark hat. "Had t' know what I was up against."  
  
"All this time," said Ennis. "You had this all this time. While I lost 'im, little by little, you had this . . ."  
  
Mike suddenly went to his knees and stared up into Ennis' eyes - eyes wounded and betrayed - and reached out to lay his hand against Ennis' chest. "Ya never lost 'im, Ennis. He's always been right here. And that's why I wanted t' go up t' Brokeback, not t' try t' blast 'im out a yer heart, but jus' to try t' find a little spot in there fer me."  
  
Ennis continued to stare at the photograph, finally reaching out and touching its surface with trembling fingers. "Why didn't ya ever tell me?" he asked.  
  
Mike stood and spent a moment gathering his thoughts, obviously unsure how to answer. In the end, he simply spoke from the heart - said the only thing left to say. "Because it ain't my way, I guess. After Ramona died, when I was finally able t' deal with it, I jus' decided that I wasn't gonna hide myself no more. Wasn't gonna pretend t' be something I wasn't and wasn't gonna let nobody stand in the way a what I wanted."  
  
Ennis looked up, and read the desperation in his lifemate's eyes.  
  
"An' what I wanted was you, Ennis. I couldn't stand the idea that he was always gonna be first in yer heart. I couldn't handle that. But, in the end, it didn't work. No matter what ya said, I always knew. Ya might live with me; ya might even love me, but he's the one in yer dreams. But he's dead, Ennis. Ya said it yerself. An' however bad ya might feel about what we did up there - however much ya think that ya betrayed 'im - the truth is that he's never gonna know it. He can't . . ."  
  
"What if y'er wrong?" It was softly spoken, but it struck Mike with the force of a physical blow. "What if he can?"  
  
"What . . ." Mike swallowed hard, trying to compose his thoughts. Trying to find the right words. "What do you mean?"  
  
"I don't know," Ennis replied slowly. "I'm not sure what I mean. I'm not sure of anything any more."  
  
Mike stood for a moment, staring into Ennis' face and trying to read the shadows in his eyes. Then he turned and started to walk away, pausing when he reached the doorway, suddenly looking much older than his fifty-seven years. "I'm sorry, Ennis. I never knew it would hurt ya like this. I never would a . . . "  
  
"I gotta do this, Mike," Ennis said gently. "I hope ya understand it, but, whether ya do or not, I got no choice."  
  
Mike looked back at the man who was the center of his existence and nodded. "You comin' back?"  
  
Ennis did not meet his gaze, choosing instead to lose himself once more in sapphire eyes. "Reckon I ain't got nowhere else t' go."  
  
Mike seemed to sway for a moment, gripping the door frame for balance before squaring his shoulders and walking out of the room. Nothing between them was resolved, but he could tell himself that there would at least be time to strive to resolve it. It wasn't much comfort, but it was the best he could hope for, under the circumstances.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Cora Littletree was more than seventy years old, although she was not sure just how much more. Born on the Wind River reservation during a time when records of native American births were poorly kept, and then orphaned at a young age, she knew virtually nothing of her family although she was a virtual repository of knowledge of tribal history. Barely past puberty, she had come to the ranch owned by George and Myra Trumbell - parents of infant twins Elizabeth and Ramona - looking for a way to support herself when the world was in turmoil and the country was on the brink of war - although it did not know it yet . More than fifty years later, she was still seeing to the needs of the members of the same family, Ronnie Stansbury and his sister Melanie being the only surviving descendents.  
  
She had been nursemaid, nanny, chaperone, and constant companion to the Trumbell twins, old enough and strong enough to be able to help with their upbringing but still young enough to share and understand their hopes and dreams and joys and sorrows. She had bathed them, dressed them, tended their injuries, slapped their hands - as needed - and concealed their minor transgressions, and, in the process, come to love them as if they were her own blood. And, in time, she had mourned the premature death of Elizabeth when she'd succumbed to pneumonia at the age of sixteen. After that, she and the remaining twin had grown steadily closer, bonding ever more firmly until she had ceased to be a servant or an employee and become, instead, a surrogate sister and a beloved member of the family. Thus, when Ramona had given her hand in marriage to a tall, dashing young man from Colorado, a blonde, blue-eyed, Redford-esque cowboy wrapped up in all the romance of the breed, it was only natural for Cora to accompany the newlyweds to their new home on the new ranch carved out from a lovely section of the parents' spread, and continue her devoted service to the family, expanding her affections to include Ramona's new husband.  
  
The marriage had been only a few months old when Cora had realized that Ramona's cowboy was both more - and less - than he seemed.  
  
In time she had come to understand that Mike Stansbury had married Ramona in order to prove himself a man's man, to reject the sexual urges that society and his ultra-conservative, fundamentalist Christian family considered unnatural and to force himself into the mold of normalcy by committing to a wife and children.   
  
His efforts would prove futile, of course, in that he was never able to divorce himself from his sexual identity, but he proved to be a devoted and caring husband to Ramona and a loving father to the two children they produced. Though his wife had never been the one true love of his life, she was a good gentle woman, and he honored her and protected her to the best of his ability. She had never known that her husband was homosexual, although Cora had known very early on. It was a condition the Shoshone woman had recognized quickly, as she had encountered it before, within her own culture, where it carried an even greater stigma than out in the white man's world. Together, husband and childhood companion had conspired to shelter his wife from the harshness of reality, and, in one way, his sexual preferences had proven to be a blessing; Ramona, though not actually sickly, was never exactly robust. As she had grown to maturity, she had seemed to tire more easily and grow more delicate; thus she never developed much of a sexual appetite. She loved her husband, but lacked the energy or passion to express it except on very rare occasions, and his ability to find release and satisfaction elsewhere proved fortunate for them both. At the same time, his discretion made certain that she would never be hurt by knowledge of his infidelities.  
  
Still, Ramona was determined to be a good and dutiful wife to Mike, and to provide children to carry on the bloodline; thus there were occasions when she engaged in the art of seduction, to fulfill her duty and to demonstrate her deep and abiding love for her spouse. They had been married only a year when she discovered that she was pregnant.  
  
When Melanie was born, the birth was traumatic for the slender young woman - so traumatic that her doctor believed she might not recover. Though she did survive, it was months before she regained any strength, and care of Melanie was left primarily to Cora, thus insuring that the bonds between the Indian woman and the Stansbury family grew even stronger.  
  
At that time, Mike had sworn that there would be no more pregnancies, that he would not risk his lovely wife's life. But Ramona, though not physically hearty, was possessed of both a strong spirit and a stubborn streak. When Melanie was three, her mother set out to give her husband a son, and succeeded in luring him to her bed on a night when he had been working too hard and drinking too heavily.  
  
Ronnie had been born just seven months later. Having been delivered by Caesarian Section, in a time when such procedures were rare and risky, he had barely survived; Ramona had not.  
  
Mike Stansbury had spiraled down into a well of depression and remorse, spending years blaming himself for his wife's death while denying his own sexual appetite in the belief that she had died as a punishment for his sins. During that dark and trying time, his children were guarded and protected by the woman who had become such a major factor in all their lives.  
  
Ultimately, Cora Littletree had proven her value to the family once again by rescuing Mike from the darkness into which he had retreated after losing his wife. She had cajoled and wheedled, manipulated and begged, bullied and browbeaten and - finally - forced him to realize that his purpose in life still existed; that Ramona might be gone, but her children required his presence and his active participation in their lives.  
  
Thus, reluctantly, spurred by her relentless determination, he had begun to reach out again, to live again. And then, when Mike had finally decided to find a new place in which to raise his family and make a new start for them all, he had run head first into destiny, in the form of Ennis Del Mar.  
  
Since that time, he had never tried to conceal who or what he was, although he had also never made a big issue of it. It was hardly common knowledge, but neither was it a closely kept secret.  
  
Cora Littletree stood at the kitchen sink, looking up as Mike started up the back stairs, his head turned away so that she would not spy the suspicious brightness of his eyes. She stood there for a while, listening as he made his way upstairs to closet himself in his study - his private little cubbyhole. It was the place to which he always retreated when he had wounds to lick and hurts to heal.  
  
She drew a deep breath and took a moment to organize her thoughts before going in to face the task that lay ahead of her. Cora had little formal schooling, but she had educated herself over the years, utilizing a keen natural intelligence and an innate thirst for learning until reaching a point at which she could discuss Nietzsche's philosophy and Plath's poetry with college student Melanie, or Bruce Springsteen's music and Michael Jordan's hook shot with Ronnie, or Louis Lamour novels and Brangus breeding techniques with Mike, or horse whisperer legends and stories of the Great Plains Indians with Ennis. She had accumulated a great store of knowledge in all manner of fields over the course of many years, but most of all, she knew the people to whom she'd devoted her life, frequently even better than they knew themselves. They were her family, and Ennis Del Mar was one of them, even though he had been the last to join the group and had been, in some ways, the hardest to get to know.  
  
Ennis possessed a deep, defensive stillness that discouraged curiosity, and he concealed and guarded his old wounds with constant vigilance. But Cora saw them, probably because they were akin to some of her own - wounds that were buried under thick, ugly layers of scar tissue, though they remained fundamentally unhealed. Old wounds, old pains, old regrets.  
  
Old - but still deadly.   
  
She wiped her hands, and took a deep breath, knowing that it was time to take steps to try to unbreak what had once been mended, but was now broken again, fragmented by a force that had reached out of the past, wielded by a ghost that lived in Ennis Del Mar's heart.  
  
He was still sitting at the dining table, staring down at a small photograph on its surface, his fingers wrapped around an empty coffee cup, when Cora sat down beside him. She reached over and picked up the picture, and gave herself time to study it.  
  
"Oh, my," she said softly. "What a beauty!"  
  
Ennis closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "Yeah. He was."  
  
"Yours?"  
  
For a moment, it seemed he might deny it - might fall back on old habits and revert to the Ennis Del Mar who was "not queer". But he didn't.  
  
"Yeah. Mine."  
  
She was quiet for a time, enjoying the lovely symmetry of the face in the photo. "Guess I can see why he's so scared."  
  
Ennis blinked slowly, obviously thinking hard. "Scared? Who's scared?"  
  
She looked up then, and read the confusion in his eyes. "Come on, Ennis. You know what I'm talking about."  
  
"No, I . . ."  
  
She shook her head and then nodded toward the oil portrait hanging over the sideboard - a pastel rendering of a woman with soft auburn curls, pearl-pale skin, and a tender smile. "Tell me something. Do you ever resent Ramona?"  
  
The confusion deepened, took on elements of outright panic. "Resent Ramona?" he echoed. "Why on earth would I resent Ramona?"  
  
She gave a little shrug. "Maybe because she was here first. Because she was actually married to Mike, which you can't ever be. And maybe because this . . . " She swept her hands out in an all-inclusive gesture. "All of this is her legacy. It was Ramona's family's money that paid for all of this. Mike was a lot like you, Ennis. Oh, he had a big family, all right, but not much else. Came from nothing. Had nothing, until he married her. And now, she's gone, and everything he has - everything the two of you have together - is because of what she left him. Considering all that, lots of men might feel threatened or diminished. Or resentful."  
  
He looked at the portrait for a moment, noting the gentleness of soft gray eyes, before shaking his head. "Never resented her. Don't know why, but . . ."  
  
"But I do," she interrupted, ignoring his twitch of annoyance. Ennis didn't care much for being interrupted, but she looked down again and identified the strong current of mischief in deep blue eyes, and she figured he'd probably had plenty of practice in dealing with it. "I do know why."  
  
He heaved a deep breath, and she knew that he would have been happy to ignore her and to leave this conversation unfinished, but couldn't figure out how to manage it without being unforgivably rude. "OK, then. Why don't you tell me why you think I don't resent her."  
  
"Because she wasn't the love of his life," she replied calmly. "Oh, he loved her, and he was good to her. He'd have had me to deal with if he hadn't been. But he never could manage to give her his heart. She never knew that, but I did."  
  
She hesitated and waited until Ennis looked up to meet her gaze. "His heart was always yours. Even before he met you, even before he knew you existed. It was always waiting for you."  
  
His eyes fell to the picture she still held in her hand. "But yours," she continued gently, "wasn't waiting, was it? Yours was already given, long before he came into your life."  
  
Slowly, he leaned his head forward until his forehead rested on his clasped hands. "I don' know whut t' do, Cora," he whispered. "I love Mike. I do, but Jack . . . I can't even tell ya what Jack was t' me. An' now . . . "  
  
"And now?" she prompted, when it seemed he had run out of words.  
  
He stood abruptly and walked over to the window, to stare out into the darkness. "Jack died alone," he said in a voice that was, itself, almost lifeless, "because a me. Because I was too scared an' timid t' take the things he offered me. An' I thought I could jus' erase him out a my life an' start over. But . . . "  
  
"But you couldn't," she continued for him. "He's still there - inside you. Isn't he?"  
  
He turned then and studied her face. "Cora, do you believe . . . do ya think there's somethin' that goes on? After ya die, I mean."  
  
She sighed. "Ennis, you're forgetting my Indian blood. The Shoshone are a very spiritual tribe, believing that the spirit always survives. That the flesh lives and dies in a tiny little pocket of time, but the essence of the person goes on, becoming a part of the elements of creation."  
  
He nodded, but he didn't look very happy with her answer. "So ya think he's . . . "  
  
"Is that what's worrying you, Ennis?" she asked. "You think he's standing around somewhere in the afterlife, looking down and condemning you for building a new life without him?"  
  
He flinched away from the sharpness of her tone. "Mebbe. Mebbe he's . . ."  
  
"Never figured you for the type that would fall for an asshole," she snapped.  
  
"What?" His eyes widened and darkened with rage. "What do ya . . ."  
  
"That's what he'd have to be," she continued, "to want you to spend your whole life wrapped up in grief and loneliness, just because he's gone. So, is that what he was?"  
  
"No." There was no trace of uncertainty in his voice. "He was . . . just Jack. He gave me everythin' I was willin' t' take from 'im. An' would a give me more, but I couldn't let myself take it. I was too afraid."  
  
She nodded then, and moved to stand beside him, reaching out to take his hand. "Then you know how Mike feels now. Afraid - only he's not afraid of what other people might think or do. He's only afraid of losing you; it's what he's always been afraid of."  
  
"Cora," he said softly, "I gotta do this. I gotta take Jack's ashes back up to that mountain, even if it hurts Mike. I got no choice."  
  
She sighed and squeezed his hand. "I know you do, Ennis, and - deep inside - Mike knows it too. But do yourself a favor, and do it for the right reasons. You do it, because the spirit of the man you loved so much deserves to be at peace. You do it out of love and respect for him, not out of guilt, because, if he's half the man you make him out to be, he forgave you a long time ago, and he wouldn't want you to live in misery. You do the right thing, and then you learn to forgive yourself. If he was the man you think he was, it's what he would have wanted for you."  
  
"And Mike?" he asked, almost unable to face the prospect of inflicting pain on a man who loved him so deeply.  
  
Her smile was gentle. "Mike will be here when you get back, no matter how much it hurts, and he'll know, in his heart, that it was the right thing for you to do. Even if he's never able or willing to admit it."  
  
"You think he'll wait fer me?"  
  
Her smile became a soft chuckle. "You think he won't?"  
  
Ennis' smile was barely there, just a twitch of his lips as he turned away to gaze once more into the night, and Cora sighed, knowing that it was more than the dark landscape that he was seeing and wondering if he would find what he was looking for among the bright scatter of stars, or if he would have to wait to confront the dark shape of destiny, back up on that mountain.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 TBC

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

Chapter Eight:  
  
_I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night  
In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light,  
In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space,  
In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face.  
  
I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea  
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me.  
I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man  
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.  
  
\-- Every Grain of Sand _ \-- Bob Dylan  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The witching hour - as his mama had termed it - had long since come and gone and still, Ennis remained seated at his banged-up, scratched, and dented old desk in his crowded, narrow little office tucked away in the back corner of the feed barn. Around him, the ranch was silent, except for the occasional nicker of a horse or, once in a while, the far off howl of a coyote, and all was dark, except for the security lighting strategically placed around the compound and the pale glow peeking through the kitchen window of the big house, emanating from the small fixture over the sink, left on by Cora when she'd retired for the night.  
  
Ennis had remained at the dining table for a long time, sitting, smoking, thinking, and looking down at the photograph of Jack. Sometimes just looking; sometimes unable to resist touching, running gentle fingers across the image of a well-remembered face, conjuring up the smell and taste and texture lost to him over the past twelve years, but recalled now. Renewed, reanimated. Almost reborn.  
  
Ronnie had come back in from his contrived errand to the equipment shed, and lingered for a few moments in the doorway, obviously wanting to say something - anything - to break the awkward silence, but sensing that any words he might offer would be intrusive and unwelcome. Ennis had not spoken to him at all, but he had looked up and favored the boy with an apologetic smile, to let him know that the problem which had arisen between his father and his surrogate father was not of his own making. He'd gone upstairs then, and, moments later, a faint burst of music had erupted from his room - had been immediately dialed down and shifted into the throaty contralto of Alanis Morissette, and Ennis had wondered, for just a moment, if he was playing 'that' song again; the one that always drove Mike into a rant about 'what modern music was coming to'.  
  
But he'd barely even registered the sound, and found that he really didn't care.  
  
After a while, he had grabbed a Budweiser from the fridge and wandered into the den, switching on the television and trying to focus his attention on the Sunday night movie - an old black and white war story, in honor of the upcoming Memorial Day holiday no doubt, but his hand kept straying to the pocket of his shirt where he had tucked the photograph of Jack. The first couple of times he touched it, he'd actually given in to the urge to pull it out, and spend minutes staring down at it, before replacing it with infinite gentleness.  
  
When the late news had come on, he had been surprised to realize that so much time had passed, and he'd then tried to focus on stories about the government's concerns over nuclear power development in Iran and demands for Palestinian autonomy in the Gaza Strip and the Burmese head of state preparing for a visit to Singapore, or even the eruption of forest fires in the northwest part of the state. But again, he'd been unable to summon up any real interest.  
  
What difference did it make? What difference did anything make when he'd only just managed to recover something he'd long believed irretrievably lost?  
  
What difference at all?  
  
When he'd registered the faint sounds of his life partner emerging from his little study and making his way, with slow, heavy steps, toward the big bedroom at the back of the house, the one with knotty-pine paneled walls and sturdy, dark oak furniture and the big king-sized bed that they'd shared for the past four years, he'd suddenly found himself unable to sit still and contemplate the images those sounds called up in his mind. An abrupt tightening in his chest had forced him to realize that he needed to move in order to keep breathing.  
  
The night air had revived him instantly, allowing him to throw off the creeping lethargy that had gripped and threatened to smother him, and he'd walked briskly to the barn, pausing only long enough to watch the light show as a fast-moving thunderstorm battered the mountains off to the northeast, while a sliver of moon played hide and seek with torn fragments of cirrus clouds directly overhead.  
  
In his crowded little office, he paused in the doorway, before rejecting the harsh brilliance of overhead fluorescents and settling instead for turning on the little gooseneck desk lamp as he dropped into his battered old chair. The torn and faded leather upholstery, well-patched with strips of duct tape, conformed to his body perfectly, instantly familiar. Mike had been urging him for years to replace it with a newer, more luxurious model, but Ennis had been adamant in his resistance. The chair was old, certainly, and unimpressive, with a ragged, hard-used appearance, but it suited him well, and he felt no need to replace it simply for the sake of getting something new.  
  
He leaned back and allowed his eyes to drift closed for a while, drawing deep, cleansing breaths and content to listen to the silence as he reached for balance, for a way to calm the kaleidoscopic whirl of emotions twisting inside him.  
  
Serenity - or some small semblance of it anyway - did not come easily, but finally, tentatively, it did come to him, allowing him to clear his mind and live within the moment.  
  
Only then did he allow himself to reach into his pocket and pull out the photo and set it down on the desk blotter before him, moving with exaggerated care, as if the picture were fragile and ethereal, as if it might vanish in a silent puff of smoke. The cone of light from the lamp formed a perfect oval around it, and blue eyes, perennially bright and remarkable, flashed even brighter, providing a perfect counterpoint to a barely-there smile that was no more than a tiny upcurling at the corners of that sensual mouth. The shadow of the black hat - always Jack's first choice - fell across his face as he looked up and out toward his right, dark lashes like a smudge against golden skin, and stubble, dark and sensual, covering his cheeks and chin.  
  
Ennis opened his middle desk drawer and rummaged around until his fingers closed on the object he was looking for, an item which he seldom deigned to use, but which, at this moment, would prove to be worth its weight in gold.  
  
The magnifying glass was old and tarnished and chipped on one edge, but it served the purpose for which it was intended admirably as Ennis, his near vision even worse at this point in his life than it had been in his youth, positioned it over the photograph and felt a sharp, visceral jolt, deep in his midsection, as the image swam into perfect focus.  
  
Jack. His Jack. Wearing a familiar shirt - western cut, deep blue and black in a small checked pattern, with black stitching. And Ennis knew, immediately, approximately when the photograph had been taken. The shirt was the key. Jack had worn it on the first day of their visit to Don Wroe's cabin in November of 1974, and he had never worn it thereafter. Actually, never had a chance to wear it again, as it had gone mysteriously missing during that week.  
  
Ennis lit a cigarette, and watched for a moment as thick spirals of smoke curled into the air above him, his eyes unfocused and almost black with pupils expanded against the dimness of the office. Then he pulled a square-shaped bottle from the bottom drawer of the desk and took a long pull, savoring the smoky-sweet tang of the whiskey as it warmed him from the inside out. Only then did he allow himself to look down once more, leaning his chin against his open hand, and letting the memory take him, as he submerged himself in the crystal depths of those incredible eyes that flowed like a timeless river, sweeping him back into realms of yesterday.  
  
_It had been one of the few times in all the years they'd been taking their 'fishin' trips' that Jack had been the first to arrive, but only because he had reversed the usual order of his journeys and gone to Lightning Flat first, before meeting up with Ennis. His father had suffered some kind of back injury and needed help with transferring a herd to winter pasturage, so Jack had gone up early to lend a hand, so Ennis - realizing that Jack would arrive before him - had made a point of telling Jack where to find the key to the cabin.  
  
In addition, on the appointed date, Ennis had been delayed in his departure from Riverton when his younger daughter had taken a tumble from the steps of the Methodist Church and broken her collarbone. Most of the morning had been spent rushing her to the local clinic and waiting for results from x-rays, and then getting her and Junior and Alma all settled in at Alma's sister's house where they'd be staying until he came back from his trip. Alma had watched, tight-lipped and flinty-eyed, as he'd prepared to leave, obviously infuriated by his determination to go on with his excursion, no matter what, but unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing that it would be difficult for her to cope without him and how badly she wanted him to stay.  
  
Her sister, Josie, and brother-in-law, Tommy, had watched as Ennis said his farewells, and neither of them had bothered to disguise the scorn with which they regarded his actions and his attitude. He had managed to ignore them, but only barely.  
  
For a moment - a very fleeting moment - he had considered canceling and staying home. The clinic visit fees and the charges for x-rays and medication had been more than he could actually afford to pay, although he had paid them without protest to make sure Jenny would be all right, and time off from work would further stretch his meager resources, perhaps to the breaking point. But, ultimately, he could not bring himself to give up the week he had been waiting for since mid-summer; the week that was his reward - pretty much his only reward - for the hardship and loneliness he endured through all the days he spent alone. Alone - although he rarely knew real solitude - but he was always alone in his mind and in his heart any time he was without Jack.  
  
He could easily have given up the camping and the hunting and the fishing (such as it was) and the stay in Don Wroe's cabin and the return to the mountains; what he could not give up . . . was Jack.  
  
By the time he turned into the narrow, winding dirt road that curled up the side of the broad mountain to end at the meadow where the rough, stone cabin was located, it was late afternoon, and the sun had begun its descent, pouring out red-gold light across the snowfields that blanketed the rough crests of the Big Horns, while the shadows of the lodge pole pines had created a tunnel of lavender gloom through which Ennis drove his old two-tone pick-up, pulling a rusted and battered horse trailer behind it . As he rounded a curve, a break in the trees lining the side of the road revealed a plume of white smoke rising from further up the mountain, and he could not quite suppress a tiny smile to see the visual evidence that Jack had arrived before him.  
  
Very shortly, he would have good cause to be far from pleased about the smoke trail.  
  
The truck of that year, parked on a graveled apron that fanned out to a broad stretch fronting the cabin, was deep maroon red, and it was - surprisingly - the same one that Jack had driven on his last two trips north. It was usually in September that the Childress Twists traded for new vehicles, but Jack had developed a certain fondness for this particular Ford pick-up, which might have had something to do with the way the two young men had initiated it into their unique private little world back during the early spring, when they had been unexpectedly stranded by a sudden flash flood and forced to spend a full night huddled up within the dark little shelter provided by the camper top that covered its bed. Jack had pledged - in a moment of sweet, boneless fulfillment - that he was going to have the truck bronzed as a memento of the record number of times they'd come together - and cum together - during that long, wet night.  
  
Ennis emerged from his old F150, and grinned to note that the truck wasn't bronzed, but it hadn't been traded in either.  
  
He stretched his arms over his head and felt the satisfying pop of muscles and tendons wound tight from too many hours behind the wheel (and too many months with little more than his own hand for company) and looked around, hoping to spot a slender figure wrapped tight in dark denim, long legs, ending in dark boots, propped against any available horizontal surface, wearing a smile bright enough to rival the sun on a face beautiful enough to stun the senses.  
  
He paused suddenly, thunderstruck by a memory. Beautiful? Could it be that it had been more than ten long years since he had first examined that question? Since he'd first faced the possibility of it, when he'd astonished himself by thinking of Jack as 'pretty' before realizing that 'pretty' was a ridiculously weak term for what Jack truly was? Could it really be that long, and was it still true after all this time? Was that really the word he still wanted to use to describe Jack Fuckin' Twist?  
  
Because it didn't actually apply. Did it? Was Jack really beautiful, or was it just that Ennis saw him that way? Feature by feature, was he truly beautiful?  
  
Long muscled legs, big strong hands, soft dark hair, golden skin? Sculptured lips, bluer-than-blue eyes . . . OK, forget the lips and the eyes. No point in even debating those particular features or the perfection of that luscious ass or . . . He felt a tightening in his chest, of a breath caught and held, as he realized that he still did not know how to best describe how he saw Jack, how he would explain . . .  
  
Ennis went stock still for a moment, coming face to face with an elemental truth he only rarely allowed himself to see. In the final analysis, it didn't matter if Jack would be considered beautiful by anyone else; it only mattered that - through Ennis' eyes - the beauty was pure and flawless and undeniable. And then he remembered the times - few and far between but unforgettable for all that - when Jack had used that same word, murmuring it in the form of a verbal caress, a gentle breath in the night, a whispered prayer, as they lay together sated and spent, just before sleep would creep in to steal consciousness away.  
  
Beautiful! And he felt a small, tentative smile touch his lips. Could it be - maybe - that the word was only fully appropriate to describe what they were together; the sum of their parts?  
  
The smile became a grin as he imagined how Jack would respond to such a thought - with unbridled laughter.  
  
He resumed his walk toward the cabin, eyes searching, anticipating the bright shout of greeting, the rush forward with outstretched arms, the impact of that strong, hard body.  
  
Yet still, no Jack. No greeting. No . . .  
  
He paused again as he heard a voice stirring on a rising wind, followed by a rhythmic thunking sound, threading through the distinctive twang of a guitar accompaniment.  
  
He grinned and prepared to go into stealth mode - to sneak around the house and catch Jack unawares as he chopped firewood while listening to the local country music station. It was only rarely that such an opportunity arose, since Jack was usually hyper-alert for any sign of Ennis' arrival, but this time . . .  
  
_ "Likened to no other feel,  
Summer love is simple true.  
There's no end to what I'd do  
Just because you asked me to."*  
_  
The voice was unmistakably that of Waylon Jennings, one of Ennis' favorites, and Jack seemed to be singing along. Or was he just talking along? Or . . .  
  
Another thunk of the axe, followed by a sharp cry, hastily bitten off.  
  
"Shit! Son of a . . ."  
  
And another voice - deeper, unfamiliar, urgent. "Here. Lemme see that. Y'er bleedin' like . . ."  
  
"What the fuck's goin' on here?" Ennis' voice was harsh, almost a bark as he came around the corner of the cabin, and saw Jack crouched on one knee, his left hand braced against the side of his neck with the bright scarlet of fresh blood swelling around it, and a second man - tall and well-built and dressed in the distinctive tan and green of the forest service - leaning over him, trying to pull his hand free to better examine the source of the bleeding.  
  
"Ennis." Jack's voice was unsteady, faint.  
  
"Flying wood chip," said the stranger by way of explanation as he lifted Jack's chin to get a better view of the wound. "I'll just . . ."  
  
"I'll handle it," snapped Ennis, moving in fast and wrapping his hands around Jack's biceps to pull him free of the forest ranger's grasp. Jack was slightly damp, wearing only his dark blue and black checked shirt and jeans. No coat, although the afternoon was chilly, but chopping firewood was always a sweaty job, and he had obviously discarded his jacket for better ease of movement. It had made the task easier, but left him more vulnerable to the kind of flying debris that had gouged out a chunk of the soft flesh under his jaw.  
  
"Got a first aid kit in my saddle bag," said the man, nodding toward the back of the lot where a big chestnut gelding was tethered to a tree branch.  
  
"I said," Ennis snapped, "that I'll handle it."  
  
The stranger turned and met Ennis' gaze directly, for the first time, and Ennis was surprised to look into eyes almost as blue as Jack's under hair almost as dark. "No problem," he said, his voice a rich, deep baritone. "Part a my job t' be prepared fer stuff like this."  
  
With a jerk that was less gentle than it might have been, Ennis tugged Jack toward him and sank to his knees to get a good look at his companion's injury. "No need," he insisted sharply. "We got it."  
  
Jack looked up then, and Ennis felt a swift urge to flinch away from the look of irritation in those sapphire eyes. "Dammit, Ennis!" It was barely a whisper, but it was laced with anger. "Stop actin' like a fuckin' asshole."  
  
"Fuck you, Twist." Also a whisper, and just as angry. Ennis bared his teeth in a near snarl before surging to his feet, leaving Jack off balance and struggling to rise without assistance.  
  
"Ennis Del Mar," said Jack sharply, still trying to wipe blood off his throat, "this here's Ben McCullough. He was up in the fire tower on the ridge over there and saw smoke comin' from the cabin, so he rode over t' check it out."  
  
Ennis confined his greeting to a stiff nod, his jaw clenched tight with resentment.  
  
McCullough spent a moment studying Ennis' expression, before replying in kind. "Jus' doin' my job. Ain't seen nobody around this place in months." But something in his tone and in a muted glint in his eyes, said that he had seen more than might meet the casual eye; seen something that made him want to smile. He managed to stifle the urge, but only barely, and it didn't really make any difference as Ennis saw it anyway, causing him to shift uncomfortably, as Waylon fell silent, and a different voice rose softly to offer up a new ballad.  
  
"I'll be getting' along then," said the ranger, with a friendly smile for Jack and a terse nod for Ennis. "I'll be around if you boys need anything."  
  
Jack shuffled his feet, looking embarrassed, and wondered if he should offer an apology for Ennis' boorish behavior. But he didn't want to compound the problem by making Ennis any madder than he already was, so he chose to remain silent.  
  
For his part, McCullough glanced from one to the other, the speculative gleam in his eyes growing brighter. Then, when the speculation shifted and became a hard glint of certainty, he stepped forward and reached out to run his fingers over the collar of Jack' shirt. "Got some splotches a blood there, Buddy. Might want a take it off, an' soak it to . . ."  
  
Ennis stepped forward quickly, nudging Jack aside, and pointedly cleared his throat and spat, allowing actions to speak louder than any words could have. Jack, now red-faced with mortification, elected to express his thanks with a nod before moving away to retrieve the axe he had dropped when the wood chip gouged into his throat. McCullough simply smiled, but as he turned to depart, the music swelled on the radio and a single phrase was suddenly sharp and clear in a moment of crystalline silence.  
  
_ "No one knows what goes on behind closed doors."** _  
  
The ranger paused and turned back to look directly into Ennis' face as a slow smile touched his lips, never reaching his eyes. "Nice song," he remarked, so softly that only Ennis heard it. Then he winked and continued on his way.  
  
It was certainly not the first time in his life that Ennis had been rendered speechless, but it was surely one of the most infuriating. He watched Ben McCullough mount up and ride away, sitting tall and easy in the saddle, as if born to it. Which he probably had been. Ennis knew that it was petty and childish to wish that the horse would shy away from a gopher hole or some other unexpected obstacle on the ground and toss its rider on his head, but he wished it anyway.  
  
No such luck.  
  
He turned to glare at Jack, content with the realization that the primary target for his rage might be beyond his grasp, but the consolation prize was standing right in front of him, cocky and insolent and full of sass . . . and beautiful.  
  
And still bleeding.  
  
Wordlessly, roughly, Ennis grabbed Jack by the front of his shirt and drove him back onto the narrow back porch of the cabin and into its dim interior, his eyes busy devouring that sculpted face and noting that Jack was heavily stubbled - obviously hadn't shaved for days. Another reason to give his anger free rein. Jack knew better, knew that Ennis preferred him close-shaved and stubble-free.  
  
Jack, after an initial moment of shock and resistance, allowed himself to be manhandled, his lips curled in a knowing smile as mischief sparked in his eyes. "What's a matter, Cowboy?" he asked as Ennis kicked the door shut behind them. "Ya got a problem ya need some help with?"  
  
"Yeah," snapped Ennis. "I got a big problem. Got a shithead name a Twist that's gettin' too goddamned big fer 'is britches. What's that shit on yer face, Boy? An' how come I git here an' find ya moonin' over that big dickhead?"  
  
Jack laughed, and Ennis felt the rage boil through him. Blindly, unable to stop himself, he reached out and shoved Jack - hard. Hard enough to send him reeling to smash against the cabin wall, and Jack Twist - ordinarily easygoing and laid-back - was suddenly every bit as angry and infuriated as Ennis, but with the added indignation of having been wrongly accused.  
  
He sprang toward Ennis, rage like a flame in his eyes, and pushed, propelling them both into the cabin's main room to fetch up against the edge of the massive fireplace with the roaring fire blazing just inches away. "That dickhead, in case ya didn't notice, was jus' bein' neighborly. Don't mean nothin', Ennis. Except that you got it in yer head that ever' man that comes near me is out t' poach on yer territory, an' that I must be some kind a cock-hungry slut that cain't get enough and cain't resist any pecker that comes my way." He paused and spent a moment fighting to control his rage - and losing. He then reached down and grabbed his own crotch. "Well, lemme clue you in, Cowboy. This ain't no pussy. An' I ain't no sweet li'l gal that ya can push around like y'er some kind a lord an' master an' ya need t' . . ."  
  
Ennis, struggling to contain his own fury, finally put a stop to the tirade in the only way he could think of. He covered that smart mouth with his own - hard and grinding and demanding - and forced himself to ignore the burn of stubble against his skin. No camouflaging this time; no way to pretend that this was some soft, pliable female melting under his kiss.  
  
When Jack wrenched free and stepped back, Ennis was almost overwhelmed with a momentary sense of loss. "He knew," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  
  
Jack frowned. "Who . . . knew what?"  
  
"Yer new buddy," snapped Ennis, stepping closer and trying to unclench his fists. "He knew . . . about us. He fuckin' winked at me, Asshole. Now how would he . . ."  
  
Jack's insolent grin was like a slap in the face. "Did it ever occur t' you, Ennis," he drawled, "that guys might pick up on the fact that y'er so jealous y'er almost pea green with it?"  
  
That thought brought Ennis up short, and his eyes grew wide and were suddenly filled with some emotion that Jack couldn't quite identify. "Ain't . . . jealous."  
  
Jack's grin became a laugh, with a distinct sneering quality. "Goddamn, Ennis! Ya don't really 'spect me t' b'lieve that, do ya? Ya might not say it much, but it don't take one a them rocket scientists t' figure it out."  
  
"What the fuck ya talkin' about, Jack?"  
  
Deep blue eyes were suddenly pensive and filled with shadows. "Ya really don' know, do ya?"  
  
"No, I don' know. Ain't never said I was . . ."  
  
"You remember back in the spring," Jack interrupted, "we got t' talkin' about football and such? An' I was tellin' ya about meetin' Joe Namath in Dallas year before last when I went down there fer a John Deere convention an' how a bunch of us wound up goin' out an' havin' a drink with 'im. An' I mentioned how big he was, an' how he told all them dirty jokes, an' how I thought he was a good-lookin' SOB. Remember?"  
  
"Hell, no," snapped Ennis. "Ain't like I remember ever' thing ya say, ya know. Ain't nobody got a memory like that, seein' how ya don' never shut up."  
  
But Jack knew better, knew full well that the conversation had not been forgotten. "Ya went all quiet on me," he continued, then quirked a tiny smile. "Even more'n usual. An' then, the next thing I knew, you was all over me. Like t' fucked me into the ground that night. Remember?"  
  
"Thought that was what we did ever' night," came the mumbled reply.  
  
The tiny smile grew wider. "Yeah, but not like that. An' then - jus' when I was 'bout t' explode, ya started t' whisper, so soft I don't even think ya meant fer me t' hear it. But I did hear it, Ennis."  
  
"Hear what?" There was a huge measure of defiance in the two words, but it covered an equal measure of uncertainty.  
  
Jack stepped back again, and crossed his arms, effectively closing himself off from any renewal of intimate contact. "Ya said, 'This is mine, Jack Fuckin' Twist. This is mine.' Remember?"  
  
"No."  
  
For a full minute, Jack was silent, just studying Ennis' expression. Then he nodded. "All right then." And he turned and moved away, calling back over his shoulder. "Reckon we ought a unload th' horses?"  
  
Ennis sighed and offered up a silent prayer of thanks that Jack had decided to drop the subject.  
  
"All right. Gonna be cold as a witch's tit tonight, I reckon, but there ought a be some hay in the barn fer 'em."  
  
Jack walked over and opened the front door, shrugging into his coat as he moved. "Oh, by the way," he called back just before walking out onto the front porch, "ain't shavin' neither."  
  
"What?" Ennis was caught off guard, wondering where the defiance he heard in that simple announcement had come from.  
  
Jack turned and met Ennis' gaze squarely, and there was no mistaking the spark of sheer malice in his eyes that was almost bright enough to disguise the glint of pain it was designed to cover. "If ya want a pretend it's some pink and prissy little girl y'er kissin'," he said firmly, "y'er gonna have t' figger out another way."  
  
He walked out then, leaving Ennis to try to regain the breath he'd lost as his man spoke and reflecting that, when it came to sucker punches, Jack Twist could give as good as he got.  
  
Four hours later, when they'd seen to the horses and shared a bottle of Old Rose and a meal of rare steaks, and when Jack had allowed Ennis to make up for 'actin' like a fuckin' asshole', as Jack put it, in the only way he knew how - by using every ounce of skill and experience and knowledge gleaned from the years they'd spent learning about each other to drive Jack to multiple orgasms that left him limp and semi-conscious, Ennis savored the chance to hold his lover - boneless and gilded by the reflection of firelight - and gaze down at the face that he saw every night in his dreams; the face that would always - for him - define 'beautiful', stubble notwithstanding.  
  
Later, moving very quietly and leaving Jack to snuggle down into the softness of quilts and covers - a luxury they would enjoy very few times over the years - Ennis slipped out of the bed and retrieved Jack's shirt from the floor. He stood for a moment, his fingers rubbing at the spots of dark blood that marked the collar, noting the silkiness of the fabric and the fine detailing of the stitching and figuring - correctly - that it had probably cost a pretty penny. He paused to recall the look on Ben McCullough's face; then, silently and very deliberately, he dropped the shirt into the fire and watched as it was reduced to ashes.  
  
Moments later, with a sigh of deep satisfaction and only the slightest twinge of guilt, he went back to bed and took careful, loving possession of that which - above all else - belonged to him and him alone.  
  
_  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Slowly, irrevocably, tears welled in Ennis' eyes and trailed down his cheeks, dripping finally onto hands that still clutched the photograph that had ignited the memory. He remained seated for a while longer, dwelling in a montage of remembered images, a series of snapshots of moments frozen in time and captured in his mind, once lost and now recovered.  
  
A distant rumble of thunder roused him from his musings, and he got to his feet, moving slowly in deference to muscles and sinews stiffened from sitting motionless for too long, and walked to the corner of the office where a narrow door covered a small storage closet. The hinges squealed a shrill protest when Ennis pulled the door open, and the air within was stale and thick with dust. Except for a couple of old ponchos and some rubber boots, the little cubicle was almost empty, and a narrow set of shelves held only a scattered selection of odd tools, a box of worn work gloves, and a couple of bridles, in need of mending. That was the entire list of contents.  
  
Except . . .  
  
For one cardboard box, plastic-wrapped and sealed tight, tucked into the back of the top shelf, beyond the reach of prying eyes and exploring hands.  
  
Ennis retrieved the square carton, wiping a thick layer of dust from the top of it, and returned to his desk where he placed it in the exact center of the blotter. Then he sat down again, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Ready . . . and not ready.  
  
Finally, growing impatient with his own dithering, he fished a pocket knife out of the desk drawer and sliced through the tape that formed an air-proof shield around the lid.  
  
His hands were trembling when he finally opened the box.  
  
They were exactly as he'd left them when he'd closed the box the last time. Could it really be four years ago?  
  
Slowly, with the reverence he knew was appropriate to the moment, he lifted the two nested shirts from their bed of tissue paper and dropped the empty box to the floor, never taking his eyes from the dark stains that marked the sleeves of both shirts. Then he draped the garments, very soft now and faded with age, across the blotter on his desk before leaning forward and inhaling deeply.  
  
He wanted to believe - tried to believe - that there was something left in the shirts, some tiny trace of Jack. But he knew better. The only scent that remained in the fabric was a faint whiff of mustiness - the same smell he had inhaled inside the tiny old closet tucked under the eaves in Jack's childhood bedroom. Of Jack himself - the distinctive scent that was uniquely Jack, that always spoke of summer and long days spent in the saddle - nothing remained. Nothing but memory. The look in those gem-toned eyes when Ennis, reeling with need and anguish, had struck out in blind fury, hating life and time and duty and - yes, hating Jack too, for opening doors that must now be relocked and left behind; it was a moment that he had never quite managed to forget or deny. He had lied to himself for many years, claiming that he didn't know what that look meant.  
  
He had known. All along, he had known.  
  
Jack's heart had broken that day, for the first time. But not for the last.  
  
He gently wrapped both his hands in the fabric of the two shirts, and buried his face within the folds.  
  
"Jack." It was no more than a whisper. "What have I done, Bud? What have I done?"  
  
He sat for a long time, weeping in silence, his anguish too deep to be vocalized.  
  
Finally, he leaned back and straightened the shirts, before standing to retrieve a hanger from the top of an old metal cabinet. With great care, he arranged the shirts on the hanger, the deep blue denim of Jack's shirt tucked protectively inside the pale plaid of his own.  
  
Then he hung them on a peg on the wall by his desk, adjusted them so that they were hanging perfectly straight, and spent a moment just looking at them.  
  
He drew a deep breath finally, turned off the desk lamp and started toward the door. Then he stopped and looked back, and saw the shape of the shirts in a shaft of weak moonlight streaming through the office's only window. They were nothing more than a shadow, but they were huge in his mind, filling him with an old, familiar, bottomless ache.  
  
"Jack," he whispered, "I swear . . ."  
  
He did not know, at that moment, exactly what he was pledging. He only knew that something in his life had changed; something within himself had changed, and there would be no going back.  
  
He understood suddenly that he still had promises to keep.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

* _You Asked Me To_ \- Billy Jo Shaver, Waylon Jennings

 _** Behind Closed Doors_ \-- Kenny O'Dell

 TBC

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 **Chapter Nine**  
  
_You can spend your whole life building  
Something from nothing;  
One storm can come and blow it all away.  
Build it anyway.  
  
You can chase a dream   
That seems so out of reach  
And you know it might not ever come your way.  
Dream it anyway.  
  
You can love someone with all your heart,  
For all the right reasons,  
And in a moment they can choose to walk away.  
Love 'em anyway.  
  
You can pour your soul out singing  
A song you believe in  
That tomorrow they'll forget you ever sang.  
Sing it anyway.  
  
I sing, I dream, I love . . . anyway.  
  
\-- Anyway_ \-- Martina McBride/Brad  & Brett Warren  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The first two weeks of June were warmer and wetter than usual in central Montana, and the wranglers who worked the Busted Flush ranch, often toiling from sun-up to sundown and even beyond - as needed - endured the heat and humidity with less than their customary nonchalance. It was not a month like other months, and everyone who lived and worked there sensed that all was not as it should be. The days seemed longer than usual, and tempers seemed shorter, as towering thunderstorms lumbered across the prairie every afternoon, like great monolithic beasts caught up in a migratory pattern. Yet, the atmosphere of gloom and uncertainty that seemed to hover over the ranch had little to do with the weather or the physical discomfort it caused, and everything to do with the thunderous expressions and sullen attitudes of the two men at the top of the ranch's pecking order.  
  
Though the overall operations of the ranch continued unabated, there was a series of minor incidents - a brief physical altercation between two drovers, an accident involving improper use of a tractor, a quickly contained barn fire resulting from a carelessly tossed cigarette, other small incidents that meant little in themselves but added to escalating stress levels - all symptomatic of a lingering malaise that had no official source or definition, and no easy cure. And to a man, the ranch hands all subscribed to the philosophy of life that was almost universal among those born to a hard scrabble existence: shit always rolls down hill.  
  
Since their purchase of the ranch some four years earlier, the owners had adhered to a carefully structured division of responsibilities, designed to capitalize on the strengths of each of the two men. While Mike Stansbury had a good head for business and an instinctive understanding of the intricacies of finance, along with an affinity for the wheeling and dealing aspects of trade and negotiation, Ennis Del Mar was the quintessential cowboys' cowboy, who was guided by the elementary rhythms of ranch life, possessed an intuitive understanding of the strengths, weaknesses, and needs of the various breeds of ranch animals, and combined a fundamental sense of fair play with a no-nonsense approach to getting the job done which enabled him to run the ranch crew with a sure hand. While Mike was frequently away on short business trips, Ennis' presence at the ranch was almost constant, and he demonstrated early and often that he would never expect one of his men to perform a task that he himself was above doing. Times were tough and patience often stretched to its limit, but, all in all, the relationship between hands and honcho, as he was termed, was strong and steady.  
  
In previous years, Mike and Ennis had made a point of setting aside several weeks in the month of September to travel around the country, visiting various cattle auctions and horse shows, and taking in the sights of some of the more spectacular areas of the mountain states and even up into southern Canada. Thus, the ranch hands were accustomed to the absence of the owners during the late summer and early fall; at all other times of the year, however, the routine was entirely predictable. Ennis was almost always to be found out and about at the ranch, taking a direct, hands-on approach to the physical labor involved in the daily operations, while Mike spent the majority of his time in the main office, situated in a small building adjacent to the ranch house, sitting behind a huge executive desk while carrying on the administrative oversight involved in running a successful ranching conglomerate.  
  
The first major variation from the norm occurred on the last Tuesday in May when Mike Stansbury drove away from the ranch, after tossing a couple of over-stuffed suitcases into his truck and announcing that he would be back "in a couple of weeks or so" and arranging for Ronnie to go to spend a few days with his grandparents. This followed a Memorial Day which was unusually quiet, when Ennis Del Mar spent most of the day riding fence among the foothills along the ranch's northern boundary while Stansbury took Ronnie and drove down to Winnett to mingle and do some informal business with other ranchers at a big barbeque given by the cattlemen's association.  
  
Father and son had returned late to find that everyone had already retired for the night.  
  
What did - or did not - happen that night in the privacy of the ranch house's master bedroom was something that no one would ever know or try to learn, but the next morning, the Stansburys were gone just after sunrise, and well before Cora had a chance to do anything more than prepare coffee and toast for them, leaving her with no opportunity to speak to Mike, to say the things she thought needed saying.  
  
Then, when Ennis failed to appear for morning chores on three different days of the first week in June, the foreman - a grizzled, weathered, sharp-featured veteran named Jerry Farrell, who had spent his entire adult life at the ranch - shrugged off the questions of the rest of his crew, and went about his scheduled work without comment. But beneath his stoic exterior, he knew intuitively that trouble was brewing on the horizon, and he spent a lot of time that day staring off toward the storm clouds rising in the western sky, his deep-set eyes unfocused and thoughtful.   
  
When Ennis did eventually return from his mysterious errands, driving in sometime in the afternoon, he was even more taciturn than usual, pitching in as always to finish necessary tasks, but communicating little and spending a lot of time closeted in his own little office in the back corner of the feed barn. No one had any idea what he might be doing in there, as he ordinarily used the space for nothing more than stashing away breeding records and veterinary charts on the herds, but when Pop Cal, who had been the chuckmaster/cook for the ranch hands for as long as anyone could remember, took it upon himself to intrude on Ennis' privacy under the guise of needing to talk about replacing the old propane tank at the bunkhouse, he learned nothing useful, reporting back to the foreman that he'd found Del Mar just sitting at his desk, staring off into space, or - actually - at the wall beside his desk, if a person wanted to be precisely accurate. Cal had been startled to realize that his entrance into the little room had gone completely unnoticed by its only occupant, until he'd cleared his throat to snag Ennis' attention, and Pop Cal Tripplehorn, at six foot three, two hundred and eighty pounds, was not easy to miss. To observe that Ennis was distracted would have been a gross understatement.  
  
That evening, the two old-timers leaned against the corral fence, arms braced against its top railing, and looked off up toward the northeast where the last remnants of the day's thunderstorms were spending themselves against the craggy mountain peaks.  
  
"Whut a ya think?" grunted Cal, his words garbled by the plug of tobacco in his mouth, as he took off his battered old Stetson and wiped beads of sweat from his rapidly expanding bald spot with his sleeve.  
  
Farrell drew a deep drag of his cheroot and took the time to blow out a couple of near-perfect smoke rings before answering. "Dunno, but always figgered somethin' like this might happen one a these days. Never knowed two fellers that made it together - like them two -'thout one 'r th' other havin' t' be top dog."  
  
The cook frowned. "Always thought there already was a top dog. Del Mar never seemed t' care, one way 'r t' other. Jus' went along with whatever Mike wanted, didn't 'e?"  
  
Farrell shrugged. "Reckon somethin' must a come up that made 'im change 'is mind. I figger it's th' quiet ones that'll surprise ya sometimes. Mebbe he jus' hadn't ever found somethin' he cared enough about t' raise a fuss over - til now."  
  
Cal nodded. "In th' old days, used t' be ever'body'd pretend not t' notice this kind a thing. Think it might a been better that way."  
  
Farrell sighed. "Better fer ever'body else, mebbe. Might not a been better fer th' two a them, though."  
  
"You know lots a fellas . . . like them?"  
  
The foreman grinned. "Yeah, and so d' you. Just might not a figgered 'em all out. Gits mighty lonesome ridin' herd, Cal."  
  
The old cook laughed. "Yeah. Guess y'er right. Remember Kenny Duffey? Don' think hardly anybody ever guessed about 'im and that Caswell kid."  
  
Farrell nodded. "I remember. Caught 'em once, out at Pilgrim's Creek. They was s'posed a be lookin' fer strays."  
  
"Ya fire 'em?" asked the cook, after aiming a gob of dark saliva at the fence post.  
  
"Nah." The foreman lifted one hand and slapped at a horsefly that was buzzing too close. "Jus' made some noise so they'd hear me an' break it up, so that they was all back together by th' time I rode up. Never saw no reason t' cause trouble fer 'em, jus' cause a what they like t' do with their peckers. They was good hands, fer th' most part."  
  
Both fell silent for a while. Then Cal turned and studied Farrell's angular profile. "This . . ." He paused and gestured vaguely toward the ranch house. "This bother you any?"  
  
Farrell shook his head. "Wouldn't be here if it did, would I?"  
  
"You understand it?"  
  
"Nope." The foreman dropped his cheroot and ground it out with his boot heel. "Never did. But I reckon I don't need a understand it. Lots a folks say it ain't natural, and maybe they're right. But I figger it like this: long as it don't hurt me none, why's it any a my business?"  
  
Cal nodded. "Sounds right."   
  
"Good people," added Farrell, and Cal grunted his agreement, echoing the attitude of most of the other ranch hands - men who lived a hard, harsh life and cared more about being treated fairly and honestly than about the personal lives of the men who paid their wages.  
  
A burst of laughter erupted from the bunkhouse where a bunch of the men were gathered around an old table-model television, and the cook gave vent to a little burp, followed by a satisfied sigh, as he let his hands fall to rest against his prominent abdomen. "Good dinner tonight," he observed, always glad to call attention to his own culinary achievements - real or imagined.  
  
"Good enough," replied Farrell, suppressing a grin. It was always better to keep Cal just a little bit off balance and anxious to prove himself. "Pork chops was a li'l tough."  
  
Cal opened his mouth to dispense a few colorful cuss words, but swallowed them unspoken when he noticed the curl at the corners of Farrell's mouth. "Reckon that's why ya only ate three."  
  
"Yup."  
  
Again the two fell silent, and a fresh breeze sprang up, whistling around the eves of the stable. "You reckon they'll straighten this out?" asked Cal finally, nodding once more toward the ranch house.  
  
"Dunno," Farrell answered after a pause. "Hope so. Reckon the ranch'll still be here, no matter if one a them ain't. But it's all goin' about as good as it ever gets, an' I'd sure hate t' see it all turn t' shit."  
  
Cal smiled. "That why the Garvey brothers ain't aroun' no more?"  
  
The foreman nodded. "Somehow, it jus' didn' feel right t' me fer a couple a half-assed fuck-ups t' be willin' t' accept good wages from a man's hand, then turn around an' call him a fuckin' faggot. They're jus' Goddamn lucky that I got to 'em afore Ennis did. Tell you what, Cal; from what I seen, they'd a been lucky if all he done was tear 'em some new assholes. First time I ever saw 'im lose 'is temper, and I don' think I ever want a see it again."  
  
The cook frowned. "So what happens if he does lose it again, an' it's Stansbury that's the cause?"  
  
The foreman flinched slightly as a particularly garish flash of lightening lit up the northeast horizon. "Dunno, but mebbe it's best if Mike jus' stays away fer now. Til everythin' has a chance t' settle down."  
  
But Cal was shaking his head. "Don' recall too many times when runnin' away from somethin' did a damn thing t' fix it."  
  
Jeremy Farrell didn't bother to argue as he pushed away from the fence and turned to walk to the bunkhouse. It didn't matter, after all, what either one of them might think or say. Only Ennis Del Mar and Mike Stansbury could decide which way the wind would blow and who it might take away with it, and tomorrow would be another long, grinding day in a succession of long grinding days.  
  
Besides, he thought, as he fell into step beside the big cook while another burst of boisterous laughter rose from the bunkhouse, life would go on at the ranch much as it always had, no matter who lived in the big house - or who didn't.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
It was late on Saturday afternoon - the day before he was scheduled to meet Bobby Twist at the trailhead - when Ennis returned from another of his mysterious errands, and parked his truck in front of the main garage. The evening was settling fast as he switched off the truck motor, and he paused for a minute to enjoy the twilight silence as he reached out and laid the palm of his hand on the flat, rectangular package that lay beside him across the bench seat. He closed his eyes briefly, going over all the points of the argument he had conducted in his mind over the last two weeks - the argument between one side of his mind and the other.  
  
And at the end of it all, when the final decision was made and there was no turning back, he still wasn't 100% certain that he knew what he was doing or why.  
  
Ultimately, he had given up on examining the logic of his actions, and relied instead on nothing more than instinct and gut feeling.  
  
He had finally conceded that he probably didn't know what he was doing; maybe he never would. And he was absolutely certain that he did not know if it was smart or logical or prudent or wise. In the final analysis, he knew very little, except for one small unavoidable truth, one little thing of which he was certain, but only on a purely instinctive level.  
  
What he was doing was right - and long overdue.  
  
He just hoped he could endure whatever it might cost him.  
  
Mike's new Silverado truck was parked in the first bay of the triple garage, and Melanie's dark blue Mustang was in the second, and he had dithered for as long as he could. The music was waiting to be faced, and his time for procrastinating had run out.  
  
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes briefly, then exited the truck, tucking his package under one arm and stepping back to retrieve a small plastic case from the crossover tool box behind the cab. As he walked toward the house, he hesitated for a moment, trying to see it through new eyes - to peel away the scales of familiarity accumulated over time and see it as he had seen it for the first time. Solid and sturdy, roomy and homey, not fancy or particularly pretty. Foursquare - white with dark green shutters and trim, a deep porch around three sides with spindle railings, and two dormer windows cut into the dark roof. Thick, glossy rhododendrons at the front corners still bore a few snowy blooms left over from the spring, and flower beds filled with mounds of bright, cheerful daisies and pastel phlox and spikes of white and purple salvia stretched out on either side of the front steps, neatly kept and artfully planned, courtesy of Cora's diligence and dedication. Along the fence line, immensely old Lombardy poplars stood in regimental precision, fronted by large, sprawling specimens of bridal wreath shrubs, and, in the exact center of the front lawn, a circle of low-growing greenery surrounded a wrought iron silhouette of a huge stallion, frozen in mid-stride. In his mind - and only in his mind - Ennis had christened the slightly stylized horse Jack o' Spades; he had never allowed himself to examine his reasons for doing so.  
  
Just like he'd never allowed himself to think about a lot of other things, and he was only just now beginning to realize the price he'd paid for putting so many things away unresolved.  
  
Cora was in the kitchen when Ennis came through the back door, and the air was rich with the aroma of roasted chicken and cornbread stuffing. She was busy swirling meringue atop a thick, golden pie filling, and smiled when Ennis paused to swipe a finger through the satiny mixture and stick it in his mouth, his eyes going wide with appreciation.  
  
"I done somethin' right?" he asked with a tiny grin. "Don't get coconut pie too often."  
  
"Oh, hush up," she snapped, swallowing a smile. "It's Melanie's favorite too, you know. Mightn't be for you at all."  
  
He nodded before moving to the sink to wash his hands. "Ever'body make it in all right?" he asked, deliberately casual, determined to suppress the tiny tremor in his voice.  
  
"All present and accounted for," Cora answered, ignoring the tremor just as he'd  
known she would. "They're all upstairs - washin' up, I guess."  
  
Ennis' only response was a soft grunt.  
  
"You goin' up?" she asked, when he said no more.  
  
"Not jus' yet. Got somethin' I need a do first."  
  
She looked down at the flat, oblong package at his side and nodded. She had no idea what it contained, but she was pretty sure it meant more trouble brewing.  
  
"Don't wait too long," she said softly, looking up to meet his eyes and disturbed by the shadows she saw in them. "Putting it off is just gonna make it harder."  
  
He started to turn away, but then he stopped and stepped toward her, leaning forward to drop a quick kiss on her cheek. "Thanks, Cora," he mumbled. "Know ya been tryin' a help, an' I ain't been no fun at all lately. Whatever happens, jus' . . . well . . . jus' know that I 'preciate what ya tried a do."  
  
She went very still for a moment, before lifting one hand - flour-dusted - to touch his face with gentle fingers. "Wish I knew how t' do more, Ennis. But I doubt that anybody can really help you through this. This is up t' you and Mike. I jus' don't want to see either one of you make the mistake of throwin' it all away."  
  
He nodded then and walked further into the house, his package once more cradled against his body. Cora could only watch him go, and think about all the recent nights when the two of them had eaten dinner at the little breakfast table in the kitchen, rather than set the table in the dining room. They had talked of everyday things - of the weather and the new owner of the feed store down in Lewistown, of how on earth Willie O'Malley had managed to get his foot caught in his stirrup and break his ankle getting off his horse, of the additional hands they'd need to hire for the fall round-up, of the new family who'd just moved in at the old Fleming ranch and the two pretty teen-aged daughters that all the ranch hands were itching to meet, and of the litter of newborn kittens Cal had discovered in the hay loft. They had spoken of many things, but they had actually said little of what was uppermost in their minds.  
  
She sighed and turned back to her pie, knowing that she had done all she could. Unless, of course, she got the chance to have a true heart-to-heart discussion with Mike Stansbury - an opportunity which had, so far, been denied her. There were, she thought, a few things that needed saying and hearing.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The main house of the Busted Flush had been built during the forties, and it featured many things that were no longer considered fashionable. Just off the main entry, for example, there was a large, square room with a wall of windows, heavily draped, with furniture arranged to focus on a fireplace with an ornate mantle; this was known as the front parlor. The current owners had resided in the house for almost four years, and neither of them, if pressed to do so, could have remembered ever actually taking a seat in front of that fireplace for the simple purpose of relaxing. It was fully furnished, of course, with massive leather sofas and chairs and sturdy oak tables and cabinets and heavy brass light fixtures, but it was only used for special occasions, like Christmas festivities and formal gatherings to celebrate things like Melanie's graduation and, three months later, her departure to UW in Laramie, and - once - a welcoming party for Ennis' younger daughter and her new husband, fresh back from a Denver honeymoon.  
  
But most of the time, it was nothing more than a corridor - leading from the front entryway into the real heart of the house - the large, slightly shabby, supremely comfortable den, the room where the family came together, relaxed together, communed together, and made the kinds of memories that every family treasures.  
  
But on this particular occasion, Ennis deliberately detoured through the parlor, pausing to stand before the fireplace and gaze at the portrait that hung above the carved mantle, which held a neat row of  six identical silver picture frames, each displaying an image of fresh-faced youth: Alma Junior, Jenny, Melanie, Ronnie, Alma Junior's daughter, Denise, and Jenny's young son, Matthew, each caught in a candid moment. Not the stiff perfection of formal portraits, but the natural ease of casual snapshots, snapped at random, selected with loving care, and enlarged to emphasize their sweet poignancy.  
  
Above the photos, the oil painting of Ramona and Elizabeth Trumbell revealed that the twins had been beautiful in an other-worldly, delicate way - almost angelic in appearance - and, ultimately, very fragile. At age twelve, neither had yet begun to mature or to display the physical changes that adolescence would bring, so the faces captured in the portrait appeared to be those of lovely children, caught in a drowsy moment in a shaft of pale sunlight, eyes soft and limpid beneath the sweep of thick lashes as they leaned against each other, watching a butterfly as it hovered above a dewy rose. Though born identical, life had left its own marks, rendering them marginally distinguishable because of a small crescent-shaped scar on Ramona's temple and two tiny pock marks on Elizabeth's jaw, and the artist had manipulated reflected light to emphasize the differences between the faces rather than the similarities. Further clever use of light and shadow had been employed to brighten Ramona's coloring, making her hair appear to be a richer shade of auburn, her skin a creamier shade of golden ivory, and her eyes a deeper green. Ultimately, the artist had succeeded in telling a story in careful brush strokes - a tale that was both simple and complex though entirely wordless, portraying Elizabeth as the fading shadow of a life cut short, and Ramona, the still vibrant essence of youth preserved.  
  
The portrait had been painted two years after Elizabeth's death, her likeness recovered from a small, blurred photograph, which might have suggested the ploy used by the artist in emphasizing the ethereal quality of the twin who would not survive to see adulthood. It was very beautiful and very sad, and made even sadder by the tragic irony of the artist's assumption that Ramona would escape the destiny that fate had dealt to her sister, when, in the end, they had shared death, as they'd shared birth, albeit at opposing ends of a seventeen-year interlude.  
  
Ennis paused and looked up at the portrait, correctly identifying the innocence and the hope shining in soft green eyes, along with pale portents of wisdom and compassion hinting of the woman who would grow from the child. "I b'lieve you might understand," he whispered. "I jus' hope . . ."  
  
But he fell silent when he detected a light footstep on the stairs and caught a blur of bright coppery curls and faded denim out of the corner of his eye causing him to turn just in time to catch an armful of lively, lovely, and definitively female young woman.  
  
"Butch," cried his carrot-topped assailant, after administering a rib-cracking hug, "you look . . . scrawny." Melanie Stansbury tried to glower, but couldn't quite pull it off. She didn't have the face for it. "You dieting or somethin'? Tryin' a catch the eye of some sweet young thing t' help recapture yer youth?"  
  
Ennis returned the hug, breathing deep to revel in the clean, fresh scent of her hair. "Name ain't Butch," he grumbled.  
  
Her only response was a baleful roll of her eyes.  
  
From the first time Melanie had been confronted with the reality of her father and his new 'partner', she had dubbed them "Butch and Sundance" - much to her father's chagrin - drawing from her familiarity and fondness for western movies. Ennis, however - although he tried to act as if he were annoyed by the moniker - had privately decided early on that there were worse things a man could be accused of than looking like Paul Newman, although he could never see much of a resemblance himself. However, he had long since recognized that Mike, with his glacial blue eyes, sun-bleached hair, and rangy build, had much in common physically with Redford. In truth, he was not displeased to be compared to one of the legendary outlaws, although he might have been more so had he realized that Melanie's choice of nicknames had little to do with physical looks and much to do with the balance and counterbalance of needs and desires that she sensed between the two men.  
  
She had even gone so far, on one occasion, as to explain her rather singular conclusions about the homo-erotic nature of the relationship between the two cowboys in the classic film, but she hadn't gotten beyond a sentence or two before Ennis decided that there were certain things that he just didn't need to know and certain suggestions that he had no desire to contemplate, and departed to see to whatever bit of urgent business he could scare up. Later that night, Mike had teased him about his hyper-sensitivity to words like 'homo-erotic' and Ennis had accepted the gentle ribbing in the spirit in which it was offered. But he had never had any desire to have an in-depth discussion about the relationship between him and his life partner with the offspring of either of them.  
  
They all knew the truth now - more or less - and he had never seen any need to beat the subject to death with endless analysis.  
  
Early on, when Ennis had first stumbled through the obstacle course of revealing the truth to his girls, his ex-wife had complicated matters considerably by declaring, in an unguarded moment, that she had known the truth for years, and that if Mike Stansbury thought he was venturing into virgin territory, he was in for a big disappointment. Such comments had, of course, led to more revelations, and Ennis had been saddened to realize that Alma had known a lot more than he'd ever suspected, and had been badly hurt by his infidelities.  
  
Hurt more than anybody, except . . .  
  
Mike, on the other hand, had never felt compelled to offer any detailed explanation to his children for Ennis' place in his life and theirs; it had never been necessary. After an initial period of awkwardness, with everyone walking on metaphorical egg shells for fear of offering offense, Ronnie and Melanie had simply settled into a tacit form of acceptance, grounded in the undeniable fact of their father's obvious happiness. It had been slightly more difficult for Ronnie, who had endured periodic spells of depression and rebellion, cutting up rough a couple of times, and even taking a swing at Ennis once, on the occasion of his first excursion into a drunken stupor, and accusing him of being a "home-wrecking faggot." But such eruptions had been rare and short-lived, and the boy had been suitably shame-faced once he had recovered from the grandfather of all hangovers. Time and familiarity had gradually overcome any reservations the children might have had, and both had become staunch advocates of gay rights during the interim, although Melanie was by far the more vocal of the two.  
  
Ennis' daughters had not handled it so well, although they had come around eventually. Jenny and her husband, Nathan, had finally adopted a policy that parodied the military attitude; they did not ask and did not speak of what they chose not to know. It made for some awkward moments, but allowed them all to interact without flagrant hostility. As for Alma Junior, she had finally decided that her father's love and devotion for her and her daughter was more important than his 'sexual deviance'- as she termed it; her husband, Curt, had been less forgiving and had never made any effort to overcome his bias, but did not try to interfere in the relationship between father, daughter, and granddaughter.   
  
The entire awkward situation had made for some interesting holidays.  
  
Melanie smiled up at Ennis and forced herself to ignore the dark circles under his eyes. "Want a take a walk with me? I'm going down to see how badly you've neglected my Boo Radley."  
  
Ennis snorted. "Crazy-ass horse is jus' fine. Like always."  
  
Her eyes were soft with understanding and gratitude. "You been takin' him out reg'lar? Like ya promised?"  
  
Ennis lifted his hand and smoothed the curls back from her forehead. "Since the ornery li'l bastard won't let nobody else ride 'im, didn' have much choice, now did I?"  
  
"Thanks, Ennis," she whispered, before looking down at the package still gripped under his arm. A question formed in her eyes, but she chose not to ask it.  
  
"Don't be long," he said, stepping back. "Miss Cora ain't gonna like it if y'er late t' supper."  
  
He left her standing there, wondering, but she quickly turned away and continued on her errand.  
  
Ennis moved into the den and walked to the hearth, where a heavy fire screen was arranged in front of the fire pit. The mantle above this fireplace was nothing like the ornate one in the parlor; instead this one was nothing more than a thick slab of oak, without ornamentation, and the only decorative objects placed upon it were a couple of carved wooden horses, roughhewn and very simple, but somehow capturing the majesty of the breed.  
  
Mounted to the rough stone above the mantle, in a heavily matted frame, was a sepia tone sketch of a horse and rider, poised against an evening sky. The figures were indistinct, meant to convey only the stillness and serenity of the moment, rather than any specific person or place, and it had been hanging above the fireplace when Ennis and Mike had bought the ranch. Neither had ever seen any reason to exchange it for something else.  
  
Until now.  
  
Ennis set his package down on the heavy pine coffee table, and carefully removed the brown paper it had been wrapped in. He spent a moment just staring down at the object before him; then he went about the chore he'd set for himself. It was only a matter of minutes before it was done, and he stepped back to inspect his handiwork.  
  
A quick burst of daylight - the last flare of the day - speared through the broad window and pierced the soft gloom of the den to frame the new painting in its hand-rubbed frame, which had replaced the sketch above the mantle - and Ennis was suddenly aware of a presence behind him, someone who had approached quietly and stood now, motionless, with breath suspended.  
  
He resisted the urge to heave a deep sigh as he turned to look into the eyes of the man who had been his life partner for the last six years.  
  
Mike Stansbury found that he could not move, could not breathe, could only barely think. And could not voice the cry that was rising in his mind. _"No, no, no, no, no . . . "_  
  
He didn't recognize the work; a new artist, then. Maybe that kid from Vermont who'd opened a studio in Lewistown last year, a young man who Melanie had met the previous summer and identified as "a young Georgia O'Keefe." Since Melanie herself was an extremely talented, very promising artist, majoring in art at UW, Mike had familiarized himself with the works of most of the members of the local artists' colony, in order to better understand his daughter's interests. But the style of the portrait that hung now above the mantle was different from everything he'd ever seen before, different - and unforgettable.  
  
It was not intricately realistic, like a photograph; instead, it focused on specific details of the subject, while leaving others less well defined, but it was, nevertheless, absolutely accurate. With soft, dewy eyes of deep, oceanic blue, fringed by sooty lashes; hair as dark as ebony, firm jaw, gently curved lips, and sharply defined dimples, slightly stubbled, golden skin shaded by the brim of a dark hat - there was no mistaking the likeness of Jack Twist.  
  
It was beautiful, and, as much as Mike wanted to deny it, he couldn't. This was the man who had been first in his lover's heart - first . . . and forever. The man who was still first, and always would be, and who had made way for Mike and his relationship with Ennis by dying. He knew it, as he'd always known it; if Jack had lived, Ennis would never have spared Mike a single glance.  
  
Ennis stood looking at him for a moment, before reaching out and laying a hand on his shoulder. "Hello, Darlin'. I missed ya."  
  
Mike wanted to lower his gaze, to meet his lover's eyes - to refuse to acknowledge the change that had occurred between them, and the proof of it that hung on the wall. But he couldn't. "Is this how it's gonna be then?"  
  
Ennis let his hand drop, but he didn't move away. He wasn't entirely sure of what he was doing, or why it had to be done, but he knew that this was a crucial moment which would determine what their future would hold - and even if there would be a future.  
  
"Reckon that's up t' you, Mike."  
  
"Ya don't ask much, do ya?" The anger was building in Mike's voice, simmering now just beneath the surface. "What if I cain't . . ."  
  
But Ennis stood firm. "Either I'm a part a this family an' this house, or I'm not. An' if I'm not, and ya cain't deal with this . . ." he nodded toward the painting, "then I'll take it down and move it out t' my own space. But ya gotta understand this, Mike. I spent more 'n thirty years denyin' this man - pretendin' that he didn't matter. Pretendin' that I weren't queer. And now, after all these years, it looks like I finally decided a fess up and admit it to the world, admit that I am queer. But I still left Jack in the past, like it wasn't being queer that was my dirty little secret. It was him. An' I won't do it no more."  
  
"No matter what I think about it, huh?" Blue eyes were dark with bitter rage, and somethin' more.  
  
"Darlin'," Ennis whispered, "he's dead and gone. He cain't take nothin' away from you. But he's a part a me. Don't ya understand that? He's a part a me an' . . ."  
  
"Why now?" Mike demanded, moving away from Ennis and going to the window, to look out toward the mountains in the distance. "Ya were willin' enough t' leave 'im behind fer me before, so why . . ."  
  
"Didn't do it fer you," Ennis said quickly, turning back to gaze up at the blue eyes in the portrait. "Know I always let ya believe that it was fer you, but it wasn't. I did it fer me. Because I couldn't stand t' face the truth."  
  
"An' what truth would that be?" asked Mike, his tone flat and cold.  
  
Ennis suddenly found it difficult to draw breath - to speak the words that had remained bottled up inside him for twelve long years. "I sent 'im away, Mike. An' he died alone, because I sent 'im away. If I hadn't done that, if I'd taken the chance he wanted a give me, it never would a happened. He'd be . . ."  
  
The silence between them was heavy with remorse and regrets. "He'd be here," Mike said finally, his voice heavy with defeat. "That's what y'er saying, ain't it? If he'd lived . . ."  
  
Ennis turned to face his partner, his eyes dark with resolve. "Yes. He would."  
  
"An' you an' me . . ."  
  
"If Ramona hadn't died," Ennis replied gently, "there'd be no you an' me, would there? Not like this, anyway. Maybe we'd just be meetin' up ever once in a while, fer a couple a high altitude fucks, but we wouldn't be sharin' a life, would we?"  
  
"Ennis . . ."  
  
"I'm sorry t' put you through this, Mike. I really am. But it's time t' set this right - t' do what's right. T' tell the world that Jack Twist wasn't no dirty secret that I'm still ashamed of. That he was th' man who showed me what life ought a be about, the man that took my heart all them years ago, an' never gave it back. The man I loved more'n life itself, who never got t' hear them words from me. I gotta do this, and I'm sure hopin' you can deal with it, that we can find our way through it . . . together. But I gotta do it, no matter what."  
  
Moving quickly, he stepped forward and wrapped his hand around the back of Mike's neck before leaning in and dropping a soft kiss in the velvet softness below his jaw line. Then he walked out of the room and out of the house. He had said what he had to say and done what needed doing. It would be up to Mike now, to determine what came next.  
  
He set off toward the stables, to join Melanie in her reunion with her wonderful, beautiful, crazy-ass horse.  
  
In the den, now deep in shadow, Mike Stansbury continued to look out toward the horizon, rapidly losing definition as the first stars blinked into existence. When he heard a footstep behind him, he sighed. Somehow, he had known that there was more to come.  
  
"You decided yet?" asked Cora, nothing but curiosity in her tone.  
  
"Eavesdropping again, Woman?" The words were sharp, but they both knew they were just spoken to fill the silence.  
  
"How else am I gonna learn what's goin' on?" she replied, taking a seat on the battered old couch and staring up at the new addition to the room's décor. "And what matters."  
  
Mike turned sharply to stare at her. "You think this . . ." he nodded toward the painting, "matters?"  
  
"I know it does," she answered firmly, "and so do you."  
  
"You think he's right then." Beneath the note of belligerence that threaded harshness through his voice, there was an undertone of exhaustion and defeat.  
  
"I do," she replied gently. "Is he really asking so much of you - so much that you'd risk throwin' away what you've gained?"  
  
"Never been good at sharing, Cora," he snapped. "You should know me well enough to know that."  
  
She nodded. "Guess I should, but tell me this, Mike. What exactly is it that you think you'll be asked to share? You think this man's spirit is gonna come callin', crawling into your bed at night to take what's yours? You think Ennis is gonna choose his memory of this man over your living presence? He wants - he needs - to honor a memory that he pushed away for all these years. A memory - not the man himself, cause it's far too late for that. He needs to find peace with his conscience, to do whatever it takes to . . ."  
  
"He was first," Mike cried, letting the anguish and the hurt erupt from his core. "He had what was supposed a be mine. He was . . ." He fell silent when he couldn't find the words to continue..  
  
"Yes," she said softly. "He was first. And there's nothing you can do to change that. He's always going to have been first. But that's not the real question here, Mike. Not the important one."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
She rose and moved to stand before him, reaching up to cup his cheek with a gentle hand. "The only thing that really matters is who's going to be last, isn't it?"  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
When the family gathered for dinner, by tacit agreement, conversation was light and warm and focused on safe topics like Melanie's art instructor who was French and ill-mannered but brilliant, and Ronnie's need for a new saddle, and the latest gossip about Maizie Sullivan - the widowed owner of the Rocking M ranch who had a weakness for young, blonde cowboys. There was much laughter, and everyone seemed glad for a chance to relax and simply enjoy the moment and Cora's excellent meal.  
  
Over his second piece of coconut pie, Ennis looked up and found Mike's eyes on him, dark with shadows and filled with something that might have been need - and might not.  
  
"Think I'll be turnin' in early," said Ennis, rising. "Gotta head out at the crack of dawn."  
  
"Ennis," said Melanie quickly, with a swift glance toward her father, "I hope everything goes OK. I hope you find what you need to find."  
  
Ennis confined his response to a nod and a tiny smile, and moved toward the stairs, pausing long enough to lay a hand on Ronnie's shoulder as he passed. When he reached the doorway, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder, to meet Mike's gaze. "You comin'?" he asked softly.  
  
Mike's eyes closed, but not quickly enough to conceal the flare of emotion within them. Only Ennis, however, was able to recognize it for what it was, and understand that Mike had not been entirely certain that his presence in their bedroom would be welcome.  
  
Mike nodded, and rose from the table, keeping his eyes downcast so that no one would be able to notice their suspicious shininess.  
  
The two men went upstairs, Ennis' hand braced against Mike's shoulder.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
At breakfast the following morning, Mike was unusually quiet, and Ronnie and Melanie seemed preoccupied as well. Ennis, of course, was long gone, having driven off into the dawn as the first streaks of primrose painted the eastern sky, and no one mentioned his departure.  
  
Which, of course, only served to emphasize his absence.  
  
Carrying his second cup of coffee with him, Mike left the table and his virtually untouched breakfast, in order to wander into the den and stand before the fireplace, where Jack Twist looked down on him with a faint smile.  
  
He tried to believe the smile was a smirk, that the face before him was a mask for something ugly and depraved, something that should never have been allowed to touch his Ennis, to infect him with this endless need to subject himself to whatever this man had to offer.  
  
He tried to believe it - and couldn't - and felt a thousand times worse to realize that he had been lying to himself for all these years; that Jack hadn't been the cretin who never deserved what Ennis had given; that Jack had been the other half of Ennis' soul; and that Jack had deserved everything that Ennis had never been able to give him - the very things that he had given to Mike, once Jack was gone.  
  
He set his coffee cup down, and fought off a compulsion to go to the kitchen and take a butcher knife from the cabinet and come back and slice the painting to shreds. Such an action would obliterate the portrait, but it wouldn't do a thing to erase the horror that was throbbing within his heart, the terrible guilt and remorse that was at war with his own needs and desires.  
  
He needed to destroy something, to wipe out something - to regain control of all that he had lost. And he knew that he was walking on the knife-edge of disaster, that his entire future with Ennis was at stake, that he must accept what he could not change. He even knew that a true, selfless love would move him to support what Ennis was doing, in the interest of caring more about Ennis' happiness than his own. He knew all of that, and still clinched his fists to subdue his rage.  
  
He turned and strode away from the portrait, to remove himself from temptation, and walked out of the house, still needing an object on which to vent his rage. He was half way to the stables before it struck him, before he remembered where he would find the perfect target for his fury. He wasn't sure he could get away with it; wasn't sure how he'd even respond if Ennis confronted him, but maybe he was worrying needlessly. Maybe Ennis wouldn't even notice. The box, after all, had been tucked away in the top of that little closet, gathering dust, for years. Maybe Ennis didn't even remember where it was, or what it held.  
  
Mike, of course, had figured it out early on, finding the box in Ennis' effects when they were still living in Riverton and always keeping track of it thereafter. He'd never let on that he knew about it, and perhaps his ignorance would serve him now. If worse came to worse, perhaps he could simply claim that he'd tossed the box out, thinking it was just trash.  
  
Ennis' little office wasn't locked, of course. There was nothing in it that would tempt a thief, so Mike was able to go directly in. It had been a while since he'd visited the tiny room, and he paused to take a quick look around, noticing again how shabby the office was and how crowded. He needed to pressure Ennis to replace the old, bedraggled desk chair and the scratched and dented desk, but first things first.  
  
The closet door was slightly ajar, and Mike wrenched it open. Then he reached up into the dark cubbyhole at the top and felt around for what he knew was there, what he had last seen some two years earlier.  
  
When his hands encountered nothing but dust, he reached in further, sure that he must have just missed the box in his haste. But several more seconds of searching yielded the same result. The box was not there.  
  
Now where . . . .  
  
He looked around the office and finally spotted what he was seeking. The familiar box was in the trash can by the desk, the tape that had sealed it torn away. On the wall by the desk was a wooden clothes hanger, dangling from a crooked nail, and Mike was suddenly sure that he knew what the hanger had held. He closed his eyes and was able to visualize it: two shirts - light and dark, plain and plaid - nested one within the other, each stained with what could only be dried blood.  
  
Two shirts, kept and preserved and treasured over many long years.  
  
Two shirts - nowhere to be found.  
  
He walked out of the office, visions of a bonfire consuming the garments still flickering in his mind, and spent a moment looking up into the brightness of morning, understanding that that which he had sought to destroy had been forever taken beyond his reach.  
  
He wasn't sure how he felt: angry that his plot to gain a measure of revenge had been foiled, or relieved that he would never have to face Ennis' anger for his actions. He knew that his attitude was petty and childish, knew that he must make his peace with what Ennis wanted or risk losing him. But, for the moment, he could barely swallow his disappointment or stifle his curiosity.  
  
Where the hell were those shirts?  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  TBC                                                                                           

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**  
  
  
_Time does not bring relief; you all have lied  
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!  
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;  
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;  
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,  
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;  
But last year's bitter loving must remain  
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!  
  
There are a hundred places where I fear  
To go - so with his memory they brim!  
And entering with relief some quiet place  
Where never fell his foot or shone his face  
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"  
And so stand stricken, so remembering him!  
  
\- Sonnets_ \-- Edna St. Vincent Millay  
  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
I was early, as I'd expected. Yet I would not have changed it. Even as I drove into the dappled stillness, a blend of golden coins of light and stained glass, bottle green dimness that marked the end of my journey, I had to struggle to suppress the occasional tremors that rose inside me. Arriving at this hour, well before noon, while the shadows of the pines were still sharply elongated and deeply etched on the lake's surface, would allow me enough time to try to establish some small measure of control and to work off some of the nervous energy that had been building within me for days. Beside me, almost as antsy as I was, Tinker moved from sticking his head out the side window to bracing against the rear window to snuggling up against my thigh, before starting the whole circuit all over again.  
  
I wasn't entirely sure why it had seemed so right to bring him with me as he had never known my dad, although he was almost a carbon copy of Daddy's beloved Isabelle. Maybe that was the reason; maybe I knew that he'd have loved this little pup just as he'd loved Tinker's great grand-dam; he was always a sucker for tough, feisty little dogs.  
  
It had been a brief drive, comparatively speaking - just a few hours from Lightning Flat, where I'd left Chelsea to spend a few days with Grandma Twist. Nothing like the all day ordeal my father had regularly endured, in his journey back from the world of his everyday existence to the one from which he'd sprung, the one in which he'd left his heart.  
  
To this day, I still remember with brilliant clarity the first time I stumbled upon that particularly hard-to-swallow truth. Stumbled - literally.  
  
I was thirteen years old. A difficult age at the best of times for any kid, and difficult doesn't even begin to cover it when the boy teeters on the brink of a discovery that will change his perceptions of everything in his life. What I heard that night would haunt me for a long, long time, mostly because I deliberately chose not to see what was standing right in front of me, daring me to acknowledge it. Only with time and rugged persistence would life paint me so completely into a corner that there was no more room to run.  
  
And it all happened because I was the son of both my parents and thus, at times, pretty royally screwed up, especially as I approached adolescence. Looking back, I don't think I was a total brat; not all the time anyway. But there's no denying that I had my less-than-lovely moments. On the one hand, I was the spoiled little rich kid - a true scion of the Newsome family, with all the pride and arrogance and sense of social entitlement that one might expect from a boy in such a position, bolstered and reinforced by my grandfather's attitude . But at the same time, I was a combination of a budding Jack Twist - with his rough-and-tumble mentality, a huge bottomless curiosity, a thirst for physical gratification, and a broad streak of self-interest - and a fledgling Lureen Newsome Twist, hard-headed, quick-tempered, sassy, and determined. It made for some explosive intersections of time and temper.  
  
Those were fundamental characteristics, naturally inherited. They would be reformed and tempered later - thankfully - but at thirteen, I was pretty much a self-centered young prick who thought the world should revolve around him.  
  
Thus, when my parents presented me with my very first horse - such as she was - on my thirteenth birthday, I accepted it as my due, assuming that my life would go on as it always had, with me reaping the benefits of wealth and accepting no responsibilities for anything beyond enjoying myself. But my dad had other ideas and, eventually, even my mother began to see that he had a point.  
  
I was shocked when I learned that Thistle, my eleven-year-old mare - slightly sway-backed, short and dumpy and incredibly docile - would be mine in every sense of the word, to ride, to enjoy, to own, and to care for, with almost no adult intervention and no help from the servants and underlings who had always made my life run so smoothly. Of course, since the mare would be stabled at my grandfather's ranch, several miles outside Childress, and since I was only there when one of my parents or grandparents chose to drive me out there, the rule only applied to those occasions when I was present to enjoy my birthday gift. Nevertheless, I was outraged.  
  
On learning what was expected of me, I did exactly what my father had predicted I'd do. I fumed and snarled and generally showed my ass, proclaiming that I was not going to be reduced to doing the work of a common stable hand.  
  
My dad simply nodded, and went about his business.  
  
And the next day, when my mother drove me out to the ranch and I went tearing out to the stable, geared up to order someone to saddle my horse for me, I walked into the stall where my less-than-fiery steed had been quartered only to find a gaudily-painted carousel horse waiting for me instead, mounted on a striped pole, with a note attached to the gilded saddle.  
  
_Dear Bobby,  
  
This is the only kind of horse that don't need no upkeep from its owner. If it meets your needs, then happy trails, Buckaroo. If it don't, I'm pretty sure you can figure out what you have to do.  
  
Love,  
Daddy  
_  
It goes without saying, I guess, that I came face to face in that moment with a truth that would become more and more obvious as I grew older. Daddy was emphatically _not_ a Newsome, and he was bound and determined that I would not be one either, not, at any rate, without a strong strain of Twist hardtack grit grafted to the part of me that took after my mama's daddy. It only took about five minutes into our confrontation that day, with me red-faced and furious and wailing with frustration and him calm and cool and determined, for me to understand that this was a fight I was not going to win.  
  
I think now that I began to grow up that day, just a little bit. It wasn't the first lesson I ever learned, but it was one of the hardest.  
  
Funny how things work out sometimes. I still have that note.  
  
Just a few months later, my responsibilities for the care of my horse led me out to the stables one frosty night in November, to what would prove to be my first real appointment with destiny, taking me to a place from which I would never be able to back away completely.  
  
_It was fiercely cold outside, and the North wind was blowing up a gale, howling around the eaves of the stable like some kind of demented beast. Mama and Daddy had driven me out during the afternoon, and I'd enjoyed my ride, especially when Daddy saddled Warlock, one of my grandfather's big geldings, and rode out with me. It was a fun couple of hours, but cold, and we wound up racing back to the stables. Needless to say, it was a race that I had no shot of winning since Thistle only had two gaits - a slow walk and a kind of rolling lope that always felt a little like riding a rocking chair. When we got back, Daddy unsaddled the gelding and saw to its needs before going out to the bunkhouse to talk with some of the ranch hands. Meanwhile, I tended to Thistle quickly, watering her and filling her feed bag and giving her a quick curry to slough off dead patches of hair, but I was distracted during my chores by the memory of the big platter of fudge brownies my grandmother had made for me earlier in the day, and, in my eagerness to get inside, for supper and chocolate, I forgot to put down fresh hay in the stall.  
  
I ate heartily, with Grandma and Mama smiling over my out-of-control appetite, and Daddy still not having returned to the house. Though I didn't spend much time thinking about it in those days, I would later realize that it was always more peaceful at the family table when Daddy and L.D. were not present at the same time. When I'd eaten my fill, I settled myself happily in my favorite chair in the den, a chunk of brownie in each hand, while the twangy guitar-driven theme music of _ Hawaii 5-0 _blared from the television, with my grandfather voicing his usual complaints about all the "chinks, spiks, niggers, and dagos" that were "all over the TV". When Mama asked if I'd tended to Thistle, aka Bobby's nag, I said that I had, almost managing to ignore the sudden realization of what I'd forgotten to do. But Mama knew me too well and saw it in my face and sat looking at me, waiting for me to fess up.  
  
"What?" she asked finally, when I'd managed to avoid looking her straight in the eye for a full minute.  
  
"Fergot the hay," I mumbled.  
  
"Oh." She was slow to answer, as if thinking it over carefully. "Okay, then. Guess it don't matter. So here's how we'll handle this. Tomorrow mornin', when ya get ready for school, you dress just like always." Then she smiled. "Only ya go without shoes and socks, OK? Ought to feel mighty fine, in the frost."  
  
In the definitive whine of every twelve-year-old boy, caught with his pants down, I voiced my objection. "Maaa-maaaa."  
  
She simply pursed her lips, curled herself up at the end of the sofa, and inspected her crimson-tipped nails. "Suit yourself, Son. But you're gonna be the one has t' tell yer Daddy."  
  
My grandfather started to say something, even went so far as to clear his throat, but the look Mama gave him persuaded him to think twice, and he wound up settling for a smoldering glare at my unperturbed mother.  
  
Needless to say, I allowed myself one more theatrical sigh, before getting up and grabbing my jacket, reflecting as I went that it was entirely unfair for parents to know exactly how to push a kid's buttons. She'd known, of course, that I'd rather eat liver than face Daddy's disappointment.  
  
The howl of the wind hadn't lessened in the least, and I decided to avoid fighting the big front doors of the stable by detouring around to the side, slipping in through a narrow little pocket doorway into the tack room. That's how I came to enter the cavernous building in near total silence, without anybody noticing, not that I knew when I first went in that there was anybody else there who might notice.  
  
I was still steamed over having to go back out into the cold, but it only took one look from Thistle's huge, dark eyes - eyes that always seemed to go softer whenever she looked at me - for me to relent and remember that she would not have a big, luxurious comforter or built-in central heat to keep her warm. That's what the straw in the bottom of the stall was meant to do, and, after pausing to rub her nose and slip her a couple of sugar cubes, I moved to retrieve a bale of hay from an empty stall next to hers just as the shriek of the wind dropped to a low moan. That's when I heard the voices, and realized that I was not alone.  
  
But the howling began again almost immediately, swallowing my own exclamation. So I hurried to break open the bale and scatter the straw all around Thistle's feet before stepping out into the corridor and moving toward the front of the stable.  
  
The only light came from a few small nightlight-type fixtures scattered along the outer walls, placed so that stable-hands could find their way around if they had to come in during the night, without having to turn on the big overheads, but the big building was mostly in shadow, so much so that I probably never would have seen the others who were in there with me if one of them hadn't ignited a Zippo lighter and leaned forward to light a cigarette for the other.  
  
I almost shouted out a greeting then, but something made me hesitate.  
  
Maybe it was the brief glimpse I caught of the look in my daddy's eyes; maybe it was something in the way he accepted the light before stepping back and away from the man standing before him. And maybe it was just a feeling, like something icy cold touching my spine, telling me to shut up and listen.  
  
"Jack." I recognized the broad, unmistakable southern accent of Randall Malone, foreman of the Taylor ranch just down the road, voice raised to be heard over the roar of the wind. "Please stop and think . . ."  
  
"I have thought, Randall." Daddy sounded terribly weary. "I been thinkin' on this fer months. Even years, maybe. An' I always come back to the same thing. I just cain't keep on like this. It's not right - not fer you, not fer nobody."  
  
"Why don't you let me worry about . . ."  
  
"Please don't do this," my daddy interrupted, a small trace of cold anger flaring in his voice. "Y'er jus' makin' it harder. I cain't. Don't you understand that? I jus' cain't. Don't you think I'd fix it, if I could. Shit, I spent years and years tryin' a fix it, and it never made no difference."  
  
Mr. Malone inched forward and reached out to lift Daddy's chin, so they could look into each other's eyes. He towered over Daddy by several inches, and probably outweighed him by fifty pounds; yet there was no doubt that these were two equals standing toe to toe - not squaring off exactly, but not backing down either.  
  
"You could give it more time, Jack. Someday ya might . . ."  
  
When my father surged forward, neatly invading Malone's space, I was slightly startled to see that the bigger man fell back a bit, obviously taken by surprise. "I could give it forever, and nothin' would change, Randall. Not a single thing. Look, as much as I never wanted a believe it, there jus' ain't no way t' deny that some people only have it in 'em t' give their heart away jus' the one time. And Goddamn it! I tried - you got no idea how hard I tried - t' change that. Ever' way that I could think of. When it happened a me, I was too Goddamned young t' even know what the fuck I was doin'."  
  
"But . . ."  
  
Daddy spun away and drove his fist into the wall, and even in the near darkness I could see the bloom of blood on his knuckles. "Don't you think I'd change it, if I could."  
  
For a moment, there was only silence; then Mr. Malone took a step back and turned to walk away. He only paused once, and spoke without actually looking back.  
  
"If ya ever change yer mind . . ."  
  
"I won't." Daddy cut him off quickly, obviously not wanting to hear it.  
  
"Let me say this, Jack. Just this." When Daddy offered no response, Mr. Malone continued, his voice broken and heavy. "If ya ever change yer mind, I'll be around. I still . . ." He fell silent, obviously having more to say but embarrassed to say it.  
  
"Yeah," Daddy said hoarsely. "I know."  
  
I don't know what else might have been said, whether or not they might have turned to look at each other; whether or not Mr. Malone might have found the courage to speak the words he'd left unspoken or to hurry back to my father's side to do whatever he might have felt compelled to do, for, at that moment, my own courage failed me.  
  
Quickly, silently, I made my way back to the little side entrance, and ran for my life. Ran for the warmth and safety of the house. Ran for the comfort of familiarity and the bliss of ignorance.  
  
Ran - from a truth I was not yet ready to learn.  
  
I knew, of course. Even then, I knew - not all of it, for sure, but enough. But it would be years before I could bring myself to examine it closely enough to fully understand what it meant.  
  
I saw Randall Malone many times during the remainder of my dad's life, and I never again saw anything to indicate that the two of them were anything more than casual drinking buddies. He always treated my mother with gentle courtesy, treated me with affection and warmth, and treated my father as if that stark, bitter conversation had never taken place. Whether this means that my dad stuck to his decision and there was nothing more between them, or simply that they had become more cautious with time and more aware of the danger of indiscretion, I do not know. But I do know that I never needed any visual clue to help me remember, for it was there in Mr. Malone's eyes, for anyone who knew how to read it. My father wasn't the only one who concealed a bruised and lonely heart behind a ready smile, and when he died, there was more than one wretched soul that mourned him and never quite recovered from the loss.  
_  
I pulled in to a level spot, sparsely strewn with gravel, on the edge of the trailhead clearing, and switched off the motor, pausing for a few minutes to listen to the gurgle of the water as it rushed over stones submerged at the lake's edge, the ticking of the engine as it cooled, and the rustle of the wind through the pine boughs. Tinker sat looking up at me, waiting, but without much patience, and below him, on the passenger floorboard, rested a sturdy leather bag, thickly padded and strapped with canvas webbing, providing protection for the two objects within, the Holy Grails of this journey.  
  
Jack Twist was finally coming home.  
  
I got out of the truck finally, smiling a little when I realized that I was a bit stiff from the hours spent behind the wheel. Tinker, of course, was raring to go, and I spent the next hour and a half tossing sticks and following him around as he explored and - for a time - just standing at the water's edge and looking up at the mountain, watching as shadows of violet and gunmetal gray painted distorted faces and phantom figures across its surface. I wish I could report - truthfully - that I grew calmer as the morning aged, but I didn't. The longer I waited, the more anxious I became.  
  
Noon came and went; he was late. But only just. At eight after, I saw the big F150 drive into the clearing, a freshly-painted two-horse trailer behind it. I took a deep breath and suddenly, magically, my nerves were gone. I felt an almost unnatural calm, submerged beneath a grim layer of determination.  
  
Ennis Del Mar got out of his truck, and stood there for a moment, his eyes focusing first on me - the hardening of his jaw betrayed the fact that he might know it was me standing before him but something in him still wanted to see my father - before shifting up to the bulk of the mountain looming above us. Then he looked back, and down, and I saw something that I was not prepared to see. He was not the kind of man who led you to expect to see gentleness touch his face, but that's exactly what I saw when he spotted Tinker, who was, of course, more than amenable to accepting any attention anybody might be prepared to offer. When he went to his knees, the pup was off like a rifle shot, leaping into his arms and bathing his face with an eager tongue.  
  
"This can't be her," he said softly, his hands clasped around the dog's neck as his thumbs caressed soft, perked-up ears.  
  
"No," I agreed. "It can't. You knew Isabelle?"  
  
He smiled, obviously caught in some private space somewhere between memory and reality, studying the dog's face. "Watched yer daddy spoil that li'l bitch fer years. Never saw a man make such a damn fool a his self over a silly pup."  
  
I walked forward, watching him stroke Tinker's fur. "Everything my daddy loved, he loved completely. Maybe too much."  
  
He closed his eyes briefly, and I felt like the scum of the earth and wondered if I'd go on spitting out things designed to hurt him, or if I'd try to remember what my father would think of me for acting like a complete shit. It was hard, since I no longer had my mother's voice to jerk me up and remind me to behave myself. Now there was only my own conscience and my memories of what he - and she - would expect of me.  
  
I took a deep breath and made a mental promise to try. It was the best I could do.  
  
Meanwhile, Ennis got to his feet and leveled a cold gaze at me. When he spoke, I could hear the sharp bite of anger in his tone. "Y'er right, ya know. You ain't him. Jack was a lot a things, some good and some not so good, maybe. But one thing he wasn't - ever - was mean."  
  
Son of a bitch! Never saw that one coming at all. Should have known though. Daddy might a been queer for this man and thus, willing to overlook a lot of flaws, but he'd never been one to suffer fools gladly.  
  
Moving forward quickly, I extended my hand. "You're right, and I'm sorry. Care to start over?"  
  
For a moment, I saw the spark of resentment swell in his eyes and thought he would simply turn his back on me. But he didn't. Still, something inside whispered that it wasn't really my hand he was shaking; he might know intellectually that I was not my father, but his heart still whispered differently, and I realized then what these next few days would be like for him. Every time he'd look at me, he was going to see Jack Twist. I didn't know yet exactly what feelings would be stirred inside him, but I intended to find out. This was the man who had known my father better than anyone else in the world - the man who could answer all my old, painful questions, and I intended to make sure that he did. One way or another.  
  
I turned and looked up at the mountain, and had to shade my eyes with my hand to soften the bright dazzle of sunlight reflecting from the peaks. "You picked a spot yet?"  
  
He blinked quickly, but not quickly enough to hide the flicker of surprise in his eyes.  
  
"You're the one who knows this place," I explained, careful to keep my tone flat and impersonal. "You're the one who'd know what he'd want and where he'd want it."  
  
He stood for a moment, apparently looking down at the ground, but I was pretty sure that what he was seeing had nothing to do with where he was looking. "Might be," he answered finally, "that I know a likely place. Might be he'd want to rest there."  
  
"Mr. Del Mar," I said slowly, "I know this can't be easy for you, and . . ."  
  
He looked up at me then, and I saw again the sadness that clung to him like a cloak. "You don' know the half of it," he interrupted, "but I'm grateful to ya, Bobby. Grateful fer th' chance t' make this right. If anything ever _can_ make it right. Ain't sure a that. Ain't sure that he'd want anything from me any more. But I aim t' do whatever I can t' see that he finally gets t' have this one thing that he wanted."  
  
I nodded, trying to look at his face without appearing to stare. "Never had much else."  
  
"I know." It was just a whisper, so soft that I wasn't even sure that it was real, but I decided not to push too hard. Not yet, anyway. The pushing would come later.  
  
"Best get goin'," he said firmly. "Won't be able to get to the spot I'm thinkin' of today, but we'll need t' git a move on to find a decent spot t' pitch a tent tonight." He turned and started back toward the horse trailer, but then he paused and stood motionless for a minute before looking back over his shoulder. "Don' feel right t' have somebody that looks like Jack, callin' me Mr. Del Mar. Name's Ennis."  
  
"Okay, Ennis." It felt a bit awkward, but I figured I'd get used to it.  
  
Still, he didn't move forward, turning instead to look out across the lake. "The spot I'm thinkin' of," he said softly, "it . . . it's best seen at sunrise. Was his favorite spot, when th' sun was comin' up."  
  
"Then that's when we'll do it," I said firmly. "At sunrise, day after tomorrow."  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
I thought he would lead the way, with me trailing along behind like a faithful pup, but that wasn't the way of it, and I understood the why of it pretty quickly. Every time I turned to look back, I'd find his eyes on me, and I wondered why it didn't bother me more when I realized that part of what I read in his gaze was a raw, naked hunger. But, in the end, it was everything else I saw there that allowed me to ignore any discomfort I was feeling and proceed up the mountain astride the big chestnut mare he'd brought for me.  
  
I don't think I could ever get completely comfortable with the idea that I could spark a nuance of naked lust in another man's eyes or be at ease with realizing that my father had done so regularly - and undoubtedly enthusiastically. But as pure and unmistakable as his aching need was, it was trifling compared to the deep, impenetrable ocean of regret from which it arose.  
  
I know it was petty of me to feel comforted, but that's how I felt, nevertheless. I wanted somebody to hurt, in the same way I hurt. I wanted somebody else's life to feel truncated and incomplete, and I felt a sudden swelling of hope inside me, surely disproportionate to the cause, as we made our way up through the trails of Brokeback Mountain, a place so rich with beauty that it stunned the senses.  
  
In the declining years of the twentieth century, it would have been silly to claim that any little corner of the earth - no matter how remote - had completely escaped the ravages of pollution and the philosophy of excess that bred garbage the way death breeds maggots. But that mountain - rough and broken and tumbled, strewn with slabs of granite and layers of limestone and slate, weathered to fantastic shapes, paved with meadows of wild columbine and Indian paintbrush, fringed with bristlecone pines and dark, fragrant cedar and the soft silver feathers of blue spruce, and threaded with rushing streams that plunged over jagged boulders to cast diamond droplets into air as seamless and pure as liquid sunshine - that mountain came as close to the definition of "pristine" as any place I had ever seen.  
  
At the same time, it was filled with all the chaos of life: the streams flashed silver and bronze with fish; eagles and hawks soared overhead, riding the thermals; rabbits popped up in unexpected places and fled from the sound of horses' hoofs; a mother elk herded her calf quickly into the deeper gloom of a stand of lodgepoles; the long, auburn blur of a fox streaked across a grassy meadow and disappeared into a hidden lair amid a jumble of boulders; butterflies and dragon flies and songbirds darted everywhere, like bright piano notes designed to accent the brooding blue and green melodies of the setting.  
  
During the first hour of our ride, Tinker indulged himself, wallowing in the freedom to roam and explore and run when the feeling moved him. But the trail grew steeper, and the dog began to look up at me with pleading eyes; so he spent the rest of the journey draped across my lap, enjoying the rhythm of the ride. I saw my companion's eyes soften for a moment as he watched my hand caressing silky fur, but he was quick and refused to allow his gaze to linger. He didn't say anything, but my imagination provided the smart-ass comment he would have tossed at my father, as well as the easy laughter that would have been Daddy's response.  
  
We topped a small rise, and I came to an abrupt halt, overwhelmed by the perfection of the vista spread out before me; a lake - what the Swedes would identify as a tarn - formed at the base of a broken cascade tumbling over a series of natural stone steps. The water was dark and opaque - probably heavily laced with minerals absorbed during its journey - and as still as glass, except for the area nearest the source. The banks were almost vertical, though shallow and deeply-cut, and thick with wild penstemon, in drifts of scarlet and rose and violet. Beyond the far shore, a small shelf jutted out over the water, at the base of a broken cliff that was almost sheer as it rose toward the mountain's crest and the approaching sunset, its shadow cutting across the water like a scythe, while wisps of cirrus cloud feathered the deep sapphire sweep of the sky.  
  
Del Mar's bay gelding pulled up beside me, and, for a time, we were content to just sit and absorb the sensation of living totally in the moment.  
  
"Yer daddy loved this place," he said softly. "Used t' take off runnin' an' jump off that bluff. Wind up in the middle a the lake, bellerin' like a bear cause it was always so cold."  
  
I nodded. "He always liked the water. Took me down to Matagorda Bay a couple of times - that's on the Gulf shore - when I was little, and I don't know which one of us had more fun playin' in the surf."  
  
He turned to stare at me, and I saw a different kind of hunger rise in his eyes. "What?" I asked finally, when he chose to remain silent.  
  
He looked away, his eyes lifting to follow the slow flight of a great hawk as it rose from the upper branches of a silver ash tree. "You knew the Jack that I never got much chance to see."  
  
"The real Jack, you mean?"  
  
But the negative shake of his head was so quick that it had to be a knee-jerk reaction. "No. Just . . . a different Jack."  
  
I felt an old, long-dreaded ache rise within me. "What do you want to know?"  
  
He huffed a deep breath. "More than you got time t' tell, I guess. But . . ."  
  
The ache intensified, on its way to becoming a visceral pain. "But?"  
  
"I want a know about how he was with yer mama. How he was durin' all them days he was there, and not here. An' . . . I want a know how he died."  
  
And there it was. I had never been sure how much Del Mar might know about the circumstances of my father's death, and I found that I had absolutely no desire to enlighten him. In fact, I was tempted to stick to the lie that had been offered up to my mother, to make sure she never learned the truth.  
  
But I looked into his face, and saw the flaring of old hurts, old weariness - a pain that might go even deeper than my own - and knew I could not refuse to answer.  
  
"We can make camp here," he said, nodding toward the flat expanse of the shelf. "And you can tell me . . ."  
  
I stopped him with a look. "And you can tell me," I responded. "We both have questions we need answered. So . . ." I couldn't resist turning on the trademark Twist smirk and saw it strike him like a handslap . . . "I'll show ya mine if you show me yours."  
  
He spurred his horse into a trot, but not before I caught a throw-away comment about "smart-ass Twists", and I felt a surge of warmth fill my chest. My mother really did get it right, I think: it is a tremendous comfort to me to see that I am, at least in some small ways, my father's son.  
  
  
• * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer in the Big Horns, as I would quickly learn for myself, was unlike summer in almost any other part of the country. As the sun sank beyond the tumbled horizon, it took with it most of the warmth which had encouraged me to shed jacket and shirt during our ride, and strip down to t-shirt and jeans. Del Mar had made no comment about my clothing - or lack thereof - but I knew his eyes followed me constantly, and occasionally examined the muscles of my back, or the way the sunlight sculpted my bare arms or even other features of my anatomy that I preferred not to think about. At that point, still shy of the dreaded three-oh, I was a slightly taller, slightly thinner version of my dad, having not yet packed on the weight that would one day thicken my midsection, and it occurred to me that I was probably much as he had been when two young cowboys first met. I tried to dismiss all those little crawling sensations that told me Del Mar ("Ennis," I muttered under my breath, but it didn't feel right - yet) could barely stand to take his eyes off me. And I was just vain enough to take some measure of satisfaction in recognizing that I could stir memories of my father - my beautiful father.  
  
Oh, yeah. False modesty has never been a big issue for the Twist men - father or son. My daddy was a good-looking man, and knew it, and knew how to use it to his advantage, as do I. Some might classify that as conceit, but I never saw much sense in denying the obvious, and neither did he. There were plenty of other flaws - some we shared and some we didn't - to keep us humble otherwise.  
  
It was still daylight as we finished setting up our camp, although the sun had disappeared beyond broken peaks gone dusky purple with the approach of evening by the time I finished assembling the tent. My companion, meanwhile, had built a roaring fire, retrieved a couple of steaks from an insulated saddlebag, along with some foil-wrapped spuds, and submerged a six-pack of Coors in the shallows of the stream. The chill in the air, swelling dramatically as twilight deepened, would assure that it would be perfect for drinking very shortly.  
  
As I set the last peg to stabilize the nylon tent, I paused to look over to where he was digging through the saddle bags we had draped over a fallen log and experienced a moment that almost took my breath away.  
  
There were still a few pools of brilliance in the clearing, and he was standing in the middle of one, the focus of intense rays of visible amber radiance, backlit by the beaten gold of sunset, and framed by a tracery of branches of the skeletal remains of a storm-damaged mountain ash. He was looking down at the two small stone containers he had pulled from my leather case, and it was obvious that he had just realized what he held in his hands.  
  
As for me, I was mesmerized, for there directly in front of me - in the flesh as I'd never seen him before - was Daddy's golden cowboy. The angle, the warm palette, the expression on his face - it was all exactly as it should be. For a moment, he was perfectly still; then he slowly lifted the two containers and balanced them against his chest, his eyes closing as he seemed to forget to breathe, and I knew immediately what was in his mind, for it was the same thought I'd had when I'd first held those slender stone cylinders in my hands.  
  
Could this really be all that was left of the Jack Twist who had been so large in life?  
  
The horses nickered, demanding attention, and the frozen moment collapsed as he replaced the containers in their case and walked away. But he was careful for a time to keep his face turned away, so that I could not see what was in his eyes. His precautions were, of course, a waste of time; I already knew.  
  
The last smears of crimson and lava orange bled out across the western horizon as we settled in to our dinner while Tinker ignored his bowl of kibble and sat watching me as I devoured a plate-sized t-bone, perfectly grilled. I'm not sure whether my appetite had been sharpened by the rigors of the ride or the sweet freshness of the air or simply the change of scenery, but I found myself ravenous, and, judging by the gusto with which Del Mar (Ennis! Ennis! Ennis!) ate, he was feeling the same. I did manage to avoid stripping the bone of my steak, thus providing some rapturous gnawing for my pup, but everything else was consumed as if I hadn't eaten in weeks.  
  
Then, as I settled back against a conveniently placed log, and reached for a beer, he pulled a small packet out of another saddlebag, and tossed it to me. With a raised eyebrow, I pulled it open and found fudge brownies, thick with frosting and studded with nuts.  
  
For a moment, I could only stare. Then, when I looked up, he was very busy avoiding my eyes. "How . . ." I paused to clear the thick tightening in my throat. "How did you know?"  
  
His smile was quick and fleeting, but somehow very sweet. "Because y'er Jack Twist's son. And that man loved his chocolate. Never saw nobody make such a production a eatin' a candy bar as he did."  
  
I thought about that, closing my eyes and visualizing Daddy and the one Snickers bar he'd allowed himself every day, especially in the closing years of his life when he'd packed on some weight around his middle, and I knew that there was no doubt about the truth of Del Mar's observation. My father had, indeed, loved his chocolate, and who was I to quibble, or to deny fudge brownies?  
  
"Sooo," I said, now overstuffed and miserable, "you bake those yourself?"  
  
I saw a quick flare of anger tighten his jawline before he shook it off and smiled. "Naw. Got a woman works at the ranch. Takes good care a us."  
  
"Us?"  
  
He glanced at me, eyes hard and sharp, but chose not to answer. Another mystery, I thought, or another clue, depending on how I handled it.  
  
"Ya ready t' talk?" It was blunt and graceless and almost rude, and I was almost relieved that he hadn't attempted any finesse or subtlety. There was no place for either in this discussion.  
  
I nodded. "Ask. I'll answer, if I can."  
  
He took a long swallow of his beer and stared into the bright roar of the campfire. "Did he love yer mama?"  
  
Now that was a surprise. I spent a few moments choosing the right words.  
  
"Yeah. In his own way, he did."  
  
"His own way?"  
  
I met his gaze squarely. "I think you know what I mean. You're not asking if she was the one, true love of his life, because you know better. But he really liked her, ya know? He always said she was the sassiest, brightest part of his life, and, at the end of the day, I think he was as happy with her as he could have been with any woman."  
  
He stared into the fire, his face etched in sharp profile, and his voice was quiet when he spoke. "And her? Did she . . . ?"  
  
"Love him?" I finished the thought for him when he paused, as I realized that he wanted to know, and he didn't want to know. At that moment, I decided that all I could give him was truth - unvarnished and unexaggerated.  
  
"Oh, yeah. She did." I closed my eyes and remembered the faraway look she'd sometimes get when she talked about Daddy. "She told me once that the day she met Daddy, she was on horseback, and he was standing on the ground looking up at her. She said that she looked down and fell into those ocean blue eyes, and never managed to find her way out again."  
  
"Were they - was he happy?"  
  
The question was so ambivalent, so conflicted, that it was impossible to know what answer he was looking for, so I was very careful in forming my response, and I couldn't quite swallow the lump in my throat that made my voice sound thick and garbled. "My daddy was very good at making the best of what life gave him. I think you know that the life he had wasn't the life he wanted, but he dealt with it, best he knew how. He did love my mom, even though he wasn't _in_ love with her, and they managed to find common ground - most of the time. They got along; they understood each other, and they laughed together a lot. Of course, they fought together too. Sometimes one of them - or both of them - would get into a pissy mood, and they'd try to get under each other's skin. But, mostly, they got along."  
  
"Did she know?"  
  
It was my turn to stare into the fire. "I don't know," I said finally. "She knew that there was something missing in his life - that something had happened to him when he was very young, that left him damaged and broken. But I don't think she ever knew what it was." I paused before admitting, "Or maybe that's just what I want to believe. But Mama wasn't good at hiding her feelings. If she had known, I think I'd have seen it in her, and I didn't. All I ever saw was how she looked at him. He was her trophy rodeo cowboy til the day he died."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
I struggled to find the right words. "He was her way out of the trap her father set for her. Daddy was her independence, her own voice shouting that she wasn't just L.D. and Fayette's daughter, wasn't just another empty-headed, snobbish Texas rich girl. She was Lureen Newsome Twist, and a power to be reckoned with. And Daddy - Daddy gave her the courage to do what she had to do to become the woman she wanted to be."  
  
I paused to take a long slug of beer, and looked over to see him still gazing into the fire, his eyes intensely focused on whatever the flames showed him. "He never told you any of this?" I asked, feeling a slight sting of hurt although I knew it was foolish to feel so slighted.  
  
"Bits an' pieces," he answered slowly. "Knew him an' her ol' man hated each other."  
  
I grinned at the depth of the understatement. "Well, you got that right. Daddy said once that he had to go all the way across the country, from one extreme to the other, to find a man every bit as mean and vindictive and hateful as his own old man."  
  
Del Mar (Ennis!) winced.  
  
"Let me guess," I said quickly. "You knew my Grandpa Twist."  
  
"Knew enough," came the slow answer. "What he did t' Jack . . . no kid oughta have t' live with somethin' like that."  
  
I waited, barely breathing, wondering if he was going to say more, to reveal one of those dark memories that my dad had never shared with his wife or his son. But he didn't, and I decided to probe a bit deeper. "True enough, an' then there was L. D., who hated him first for interferin' with his plans for his daughter. No daughter of the Newsome family was going to settle for a shiftless, no-account rodeo cowboy if L. D. had anything to say about it. Then, later on, he grew to hate him more, because Daddy proved to be a lot smarter - and a better salesman - than the old man. L.D. had driven the business he inherited from his family almost into the ground, depending on sales to his Good-Old-Boy network to turn a profit. But here's the thing; big-time farmers and ranchers are only going to buy a combine or a harvester or a $100,000 tractor once in a great while. It makes a nice chunk of change in the bank account, but it's rare and it doesn't stretch to forever, especially for a man like my grandfather, who loved to play the big spender. In the end, it wasn't L. D. who pulled the fat out of the fire." I paused, and could not quite contain the self-satisfied smile that touched my lips. "It was my daddy and my mama's business sense."  
  
Del Mar smirked. "Could a sold ice in Alaska."  
  
I nodded. "That he could. An' he and Mama studied the problem and realized that the future of the farm machinery business depended less on the big spreads that would spend a few hundred thousand once in a blue moon, and more on the small-time, cow and calf operations that were run by ordinary people, struggling to make ends meet. People of all kinds and colors: blacks, Hispanics, Indians, a few brave, determined women, people who would buy smaller pieces of equipment - from tillers and cultivators to small tractors and trailers. L. D. didn't like it; said he'd never had to do business with "pissants, small-timers, wetbacks, and niggers". But, in the end, he couldn't argue with profits that went up, and up, and up again. Woulda been nice if he'd learned to respect Daddy because of it, but I think, in the end, it just gave him more reason to hate and resent him."  
  
I paused, debating if I should continue, but he said nothing, and I realized it all needed to be said. "Then, of course, he found out Daddy was queer. And I can only thank God that he found out too late to do any more harm. Daddy was already dead by then."  
  
Dark eyes met mine and bored into me. "Ya say that so easy," he muttered. "Don't it . . ."  
  
"Bother me?"  
  
He nodded, and I smiled. "Well, I'm not planning on making any speeches about it. It's nobody's business but his. Right? But I went through my days of disbelief, of anger, of feeling betrayed and wronged."  
  
"But you found a way t' git over it?"  
  
I looked down at my clasped hands, remembering. "No," I replied, "not really. You never get over it. But you do realize that, in the end, he was the one who was hurt the most by it. What I went through was hard; what he went through . . . I can't even imagine it. And I had the advantage of remembering - finally - that he did love me, even if he loved someone else more."  
  
Abruptly, Ennis stood and turned his back to the fire, apparently spellbound by the moon just rising above the lodgepole pines to the east.  
  
"Is that hard for you to hear?" I asked, wondering if I was being cruel again, but not really caring much.  
  
For a while, I thought he wouldn't answer. Then I wished he hadn't.  
  
"We never talked about that."  
  
I can't even begin to tell you the intensity of the bolt of agony that speared through me. "You . . . never told him?"  
  
"Couldn't. An' couldn't let him talk about it. Wasn't right. An' he never knew when t' shut up. Had t' stop 'im from sayin' all kinds a crazy things."  
  
I looked around, wondering who he thought might have overheard the conversations he had with my father, but I maintained my silence. For now.  
  
"So he never knew? He died - alone - and he never knew if you . . ."  
  
His answer was only two words, barely breathed, but they were huge, nonetheless. "He knew."  
  
"Then why . . . "  
  
"How did he die?"  
  
I managed to swallow the surge of anger that flared in me and hold on to my temper - but only just. I would get answers of my own, but not just yet. Abruptly, I stood and walked to the log where my saddlebags were stowed, and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels.  
  
"This," I said, enunciating very carefully, "requires some fortification. Want a shot?"  
  
Wordlessly, he held out a battered old cup, and I poured. I would drink directly from the bottle.  
  
Again, I spoke carefully, for I could only tell this story by stripping it down to bare facts and closing off all my feelings, like I was speaking of a stranger. My voice was flat, inflectionless. "There were five of them. They sabotaged the water pump in his truck, so he'd break down out on that country road. I didn't find out all the details until months later; some things, I never did learn. But I'm not L. D. Newsome's grandson for nothing. I learned early that money talks, and I wasn't afraid to take advantage of it. I counted on that - and the fact that a bunch of fine, upstanding, so-called Christian men who belong to the Texas division of the Good Ol' Boys Network would be too proud of their noble deed, in ridding the county of a cock-sucking pervert, to keep their mouths shut for long."  
  
He gulped at his whiskey, and his fingers were clinched white around the cup. I, on the other hand, felt remarkably calm.  
  
"The coroner did an autopsy - that was before anybody figured out what really happened - and I bribed the doctor for a copy of the findings. They . . ." I fell silent for a few minutes, debating what to say. "You don't need to know all the details. It's enough to say that they beat him, with crowbars and tire irons, bull whips and spurs, a baseball bat, and God knows what else - for hours. Doc said he lived a long time; said it looked like they kept him alive on purpose, so they could inflict more pain, although there was one small bit of mercy - unintentional, I'm sure - in that, before he died, his spine was so damaged that he probably didn't feel anything at all at the end."  
  
I could hear his breathing now - harsh and labored - but I avoided looking at him. "We couldn't open the coffin."  
  
Again, I fell silent, remembering the smiles and the dimples, the lines and angles and the deathless twinkle of eyes like moonlit sapphires, set in that handsome face, darkened and obscured and mutilated forever beneath a pall of grist and blood and shattered bone.  
  
I stopped talking, and took a deep pull at the whiskey bottle, waiting for the smooth burn to ease off some of the pain that always started in my gut.  
  
"Jesus!" It was barely a whisper. "Jesus, Jack."  
  
We sat in silence for a time, as he fought to control his breathing, and I fought to let go of the memories, to lock them back into the dark stillness in which they lost their power to inflict fresh pain.  
  
"So," he said finally, "they got away with it. They killed him, and got away with it. I can't . . ."  
  
I looked up and caught his eye. "Well, I wouldn't exactly say that they got away with it. Depends on your point of view, I guess, but there's justice. And then there's different kinds of justice."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Once again, I paused to organize my thoughts, to make the telling of the story as clear and concise as I could.  
  
"It was only a couple of weeks after he died that the whispers started. Like I said, the fine upstanding fellas that did the deed just couldn't bring themselves to shut up and not take the credit, especially when they were talking to their teen-aged sons - young bucks that they wanted to teach to grow up to be just like them. Add to that the fact that my beloved grandfather couldn't wait to drop the news on me. Anyhow, within a month, I knew the gist of what had happened, and, within three, I knew exactly who was involved.  
  
"The Butler brothers - Brad and Sandy - sons of the owner of the biggest ranch in the tri-county area; Ray McClaren, owner of the local auction barn; Carl Kimbrough, co-owner of a big feed lot just north of Childress; and Vance Redding, head foreman out at the Double Crown Ranch, a man that did everything his boss - a nasty old buzzard named Harold Fletcher - told him to do and not much that he didn't. Big, strapping boys, every one of them, so I figured Daddy hadn't stood much of a chance against them, although rumor had it that Sandy walked with a bad limp for a while, and Ray had to go to the doctor because he was pissing blood. Might not be true, of course, but it comforts me some to believe it."  
  
I turned and found him staring at me, his eyes hard and unforgiving. "You knew who they were? You knew and didn't . . ."  
  
"Tell me something, Mr. Del Mar," - the use of the name was deliberate this time - "do I look like a banker to you?"  
  
Confusion flared in his eyes, and he looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. "Well, do I?"  
  
"No, but . . ."  
  
"And yet," I went on, "that's exactly what I am. Despite the fact that I never had any interest in banking or finance - until my daddy died. Never cared about it one way or the other. But it didn't take long for me to figure out what I had to do, if there was ever going to be any hope of avenging my father."  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
I sighed. "The law was never gonna do anything, Ennis. I could have had photographs and videotape of them killing him, and eyewitness testimony, and nobody was going to do anything. He was, in their eyes, just another queer who got what he had coming. There were a few people - decent people - who mourned for him, and for me and Mama, but not many. Most people just didn't want to know about it."  
  
"So you . . ." But he stopped, unable to put it together.  
  
"So," I said softly, "I decided to find another way. If the law wouldn't hold them accountable and make them pay for what they did, maybe I could."  
  
He lit a cigarette, and I reached out and took one from him, mentally apologizing to my darling Chelsea. Surely the circumstances were enough to excuse the infraction.  
  
"Eight months after Daddy died, the First National Bank of Childress had to close its doors. Folks lost a lot of money because the bank officers had been embezzling funds; lots of people got hurt bad, and, when it was over, here was this bank, just sitting there waiting for somebody to step in and save the day. I convinced my mama that I'd decided that banking was what I wanted to do with my life, that, if she'd buy this bank for me, I'd make her proud."  
  
"And?"  
  
I grinned. "Since I'd never shown any interest in anything she cared about - including the family money - she was thrilled. She bought the bank - dirt-cheap - renamed it the Ranchers' Bank of Childress, and I set about getting myself a degree in finance and turning it into the biggest, most successful bank in town. I spent every spare hour working there, learning how to play the game, and got real close to the managers and officers. Learned all about investments and market plans and leveraged buy-outs: every kind of wheeling and dealing you can imagine. And slowly, discreetly, began to work toward my real purpose."  
  
Ennis was focused on my face, showing some interest in what I had to say, beyond the hunger for knowing what happened to my father. "And?"  
  
Again, I offered up a smile. "It's amazing how eager greedy men are to take advantage of credit granted too easily and big opportunities, with big risks. All they can see are the profits to be made. Just a couple of profitable transactions - letting them make big profits on a few risky investments - and they're hooked. Once they're convinced that a bank officer is some kind of financial guru - and that they have the Midas touch - they're game for almost anything."  
  
"And?" There was a hint of a smile in his eyes.  
  
"It took me a little over ten years," I replied, taking a last deep drag of the Marlboro and realizing that I still loved the taste of cigarettes, no matter how bad the smoke might be for me. "Last year, I initiated foreclosure of the Double Crown ranch, the last of my targets. The Butlers, the auction barn, and the feedlot were forced into bankruptcy years ago. It just took a little longer to maneuver Fletcher and his tight ass into a vulnerable position. Meanwhile, Redding got himself stabbed and gutted in an alley down in Matamoros. A little poetic justice, I think."  
  
He just stared at me, open-mouthed.  
  
"I got 'em," I said slowly. "Every last one of 'em, and I made sure they knew why. In the end, all they could do was beg for mercy, and I gave them the exact same consideration they gave my daddy, which is to say - none at all. They're not dead, of course, but leaving behind their cushy lives of the rich and famous and waking up poor as church mice - well, it's a poor substitute for being locked up in prison, as they should have been, but it's the best I could manage. Cowboy justice, I call it."  
  
"Son of a bitch," he whispered. "You little son of a bitch."  
  
I nodded and drank. "My father's son."  
  
He was quiet for a while. Then he turned to me with a twisted little smile. "He'd be proud a ya, Bobby. Ya did what ya had t' do, and he'd be proud."  
  
"Hope so," I replied, "because now I'm done. Now I'm gonna turn the bank over to a good manager, leave the family business in the hands of the people Mama trained to watch over it, and do what I really want to do."  
  
"Write more books," he guessed.  
  
Now it was my turn to be surprised. "How'd you know?"  
  
He gave a little shrug. "They sell books at the Wal-Mart, ya know. Don't have to go to a fancy bookstore. My daughter had a copy, and I saw yer picture on the back cover. Didn't take no deep thinkin' t' figure out who ya were."  
  
I grinned. "And did you buy my book?"  
  
He nodded, ducking his head so I couldn't see his face. "Don' read much though," he explained.  
  
But I knew better. He had read it cover to cover, for how could he take a chance on missing something - some reference, no matter how small - to the man who had been the center of his life, for Chelsea, as usual, had been dead right when she remarked that my hero might look like Ennis Del Mar (except for the eyes) but it was really Jack Twist who strolled and rode and - occasionally - strutted through my version of Texas history. I felt a breath catch in my throat as I was touched by a quick realization; I wasn't even sure how I'd reached the conclusion that my father had been so important to this taciturn, brooding, stoic individual, but there it was.  
  
Time now, perhaps, for some answers of my own.  
  
I leaned forward and poured more whiskey into his cup and watched as his face was etched in shadows by the flicker of the firelight. In some ways, the years had been kind to him; in the dimness, he might still have been the scrawny young man who had come to Brokeback so long ago, looking for nothing more than a few months' pay, and I wondered if he sometimes regretted that he had ever come at all.  
  
"Thank ya fer tellin' me," he said slowly.  
  
I nodded. "Figured you might already know."  
  
"Didn't know anything. Just wondered. Wondered if he . . ."  
  
I felt it again then - the white-hot stab of pure rage. "You're wondering how they knew."  
  
He mumbled something unintelligible, beneath his breath, and the rage grew. "Are you blaming him?" I demanded. "Is that what this was all about? So you could blame him for what happened to him?"  
  
"No, I . . ."  
  
"Because here's a hard truth for you." I knew it was vicious and cruel, but I just couldn't hold it back. "Whatever he might have done, however desperate he might have been, it would never have happened if you hadn't sent him away. For twenty years, you rejected him and sent him away, because you were so afraid that somebody would know. That somebody would figure out that you weren't this big, tough, macho Marlboro man - that you were queer."  
  
I expected him to fight back; I think I even wanted him to get physical. But he didn't; he just sat and looked at me before slowly turning away, his shoulders hunched against a raw reality that he could no longer avoid. "I know," he whispered.  
  
Ah, Jesus!  
  
"Did he . . . did he tell you that?"  
  
I laughed, and even I recoiled from the bitterness of it. "Oh, yeah, sure. That would have gone over great. 'Hey, Bobby. Thought you ought to know that the love of my life turned his back on me; that's the only reason I stuck around with you and your mama. Otherwise, I'd have left you in the dust.'"  
  
"Then how . . ."  
  
"I knew my daddy," I snapped, "and I figured it out. To get what he wanted he'd have moved heaven and earth, if need be. He'd have done anything, risked anything. That's who Jack Twist was. And the only reason he'd have accepted living half a life was if he didn't have another choice. It had to be you that wouldn't take the risk - you who were too afraid to step up and take on the world. I watched when he'd come back from those fishing trips over all those years and saw the same thing my grandmother saw. Every year, he lost a little bit of what he was. Until that last time. When he came home then, he was . . . he was never the same man again. And I want to know why."  
  
"No," he said fiercely, "you don't."  
  
"I answered your questions," I retorted. "Only fair that you answer mine."  
  
He drained his cup and proffered it for more, and I poured - liberally.  
  
Then he was silent for a while, gathering his thoughts.  
  
"Ya need t' understand somethin'," he said finally. "Jack was . . . he was always reckless - always wanted too much. Always dreamin' a what couldn't be. An' I spent all them years tryin' a keep him under control, tryin' a make sure he didn't say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Tryin' a protect him."  
  
"Protect him?" I didn't bother to hide the sneering disbelief in my voice.  
  
"Yeah," he snapped. "Protect him. From his own recklessness. Jack just didn't understand. He wanted a believe in fairy tales - shit like that. An' I had to make 'im see that there ain't no real fairy tale endings, that there was no way fer two men t' live together, without . . ."  
  
"Without risking the wrath of the God-fearing and the self-righteous."  
  
"Yeah. But he . . . he never was willin' a listen. An' that last time, he said some things - admitted some things." He drew a deep shaky breath. "I was so scared. So afraid that he was slippin' away from me. So I did th' only thing I knew t' do, the thing that always worked, when I'd get desperate enough t' use it."  
  
"What," I said softly, "did you do?"  
  
He leaned forward and stared into the fire. "Told 'im it was all his fault that I was so fucked up. Told 'im that he'd ruined my life, and I wished he'd jus' let me be."  
  
The silence deepened, and grew thick with regrets and remembered pain. "And he believed you." It wasn't a question.  
  
He nodded. "He always believed me. Always gave in when I managed t' make him feel guilty fer all the shitty things in my life."  
  
I stood up, in the manner of a man who must move or die. "You son of a bitch." The rage flared again, firmly in control now. "You sent him away, believing that he'd ruined your life. Believing that you never loved him."  
  
"No, I . . ."  
  
"Yes!" I was in no mood to listen to further explanations. "That's what was in his eyes; that's what I saw in his face. He came home, and he'd stopped believing, stopped caring. You took away his hope, and he just went through the motions after that, until he didn't have to deal with it any more. Jesus Christ! Those bastards gave him something they never intended; they put him out of his misery."  
  
"No! He knew. He always knew that I . . ."  
  
"And just how was he supposed to know? Was he supposed to figure it out while you were blaming him for your miserable life? While you were rejecting everything he believed in?"  
  
He leapt to his feet. "I loved your daddy. He was everything to me. But I couldn't take the chance that he'd get himself killed, that he'd . . ."  
  
"But that's exactly what he did, isn't it?" I was almost beyond reason by this time. "You sent him away - alone - and he died. And here you are, whining about your miserable life, whining that you loved him."  
  
"You don't understand," he said doggedly. "You can't . . ."  
  
"Why? Because I'm not gay?" I paused, struggling to regain my breath. "Maybe I don't know about being gay, but I do know about loving someone. And I gotta tell you, Ennis, I don't see a single thing in what you've said - or what you did - that had anything to do with any kind of love I've ever known."  
  
"You don't understand."  
  
"No," I agreed. "I don't."  
  
"Don't you get it!" he snarled, fists clinched. "I spend twenty years denyin' what he wanted, denyin' what I wanted. Holdin' him at arm's length. Keepin' him from makin' stupid mistakes; keepin' him safe. And then - when it was all done, when we'd sacrificed everything - he died anyway. He went and got himself killed, and it was all fer nothin'. Nothin' I did made any difference at all, except that he was dead. An' I . . . I had t' live with wonderin' if I could a done somethin', could a saved 'im, if only . . ."  
  
I wanted to feel pity, to feel his anguish, but I was much too busy feeling my own.  
  
"Yeah. That's tough." I turned away and leaned down to stroke Tinker's fur as he circled around my ankles, obviously sensing that something was amiss. "So how long was it before you found consolation elsewhere?"  
  
The flinch told me I'd guessed right.  
  
"You son of a bitch!" The contempt in my voice was raw and unbridled.  
  
If I said that I remembered the next few moments clearly, I'd be lying. It remains mostly a blur in my mind: the clinching of my muscles, the black rage that obscured my vision, the quick step forward and the jarring impact of my fist against his jaw, the sight of him stumbling backwards into the fire, struggling to maintain his balance - and failing. And, finally, his slow tumble into the flames and a vicious, mindless voice whispering to me to "let him burn; let the mother fucker burn."  
  
I didn't hesitate for long, but I did hesitate, as Tinker whined and rushed around the campfire, obviously frightened and confused. Then I remembered how my father had looked when he gazed up at the portrait of his 'golden cowboy', and I felt the shame stir within me.  
  
At that point, I reached down and hauled him out of the blaze and used my hands to beat out the licks of flame that clung to his jacket.  
  
During the entire episode, he didn't make a sound, except for a slight hissing when his bare arm came to rest against red-hot embers.  
  
Still speechless, I reached over and grabbed the last of the cold beers and laid it against the blisters on his arm. He grunted then, and moved his hand to take it, cradling it against the mangled flesh.  
  
"I'm sorry," I said finally. "I shouldn't have done that. My daddy wouldn't . . ."  
  
"Reckon you were entitled," he answered, reaching up to explore the bruise forming on his jaw. "It's a kind a payback. Long overdue, I guess."  
  
I fetched a first-aid kit from my saddlebag, but left him to tend his own wounds. My anger had drained away - mostly - but I wasn't ready to take on the role of ministering angel. I still hated what he had done, hated how his actions and his fears had robbed my father of all hope. And I knew that there was still more to come.  
  
With a deep breath, I determined to finish it all - to learn all that I needed to learn, no matter how bitter the lessons might prove to be.  
  
When he'd finished applying antibiotic and a fresh bandage to his wound, we resumed our places before the fire and sat for a time in silence as the moon rose higher, sparking glimmers of silver fantasy from the chiaroscuro of lights and shadows.  
  
"What else?" I said finally, almost overwhelmed now with weariness.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
So that's how we were going to play it, hmmm?  
  
"You've told me plenty," I said firmly. "But nothing you've said would explain why you think my daddy wouldn't want you to be here, to be involved in bringing him back to this mountain, to the place where he wanted to be. So there has to be something else. You said he wouldn't want anything from you. What did you mean?"  
  
He closed his eyes, and I wondered if I'd pushed him too far, if I'd finally crossed some imaginary line that he would refuse to retreat from and allow me to come no closer. Then he looked up at me, and I knew, again, that it wasn't me he was seeing.  
  
"Six years," he whispered. "For six years, I spent every day a my life wantin' a die. Wantin' a be the one who didn't have t' hurt any more, didn't have t' live any more. I tried a drink myself t' death. Came purty close a couple a times. But I jus' couldn't do that t' my girls. So I spent every day, hatin' every minute a my life. Hatin' myself, because I lived, and he didn't. I know you think I was a selfish coward, and y'er right. I was. But that man . . . there ain't enough words a tell you what I felt fer Jack. When he went, it was like he took all the light in the world with 'im. All I wanted was to lie down and find 'im waitin' fer me.  
  
"But he never was. Oh, in the beginnin', sometimes I'd feel like he was somewhere close by, like he was standin' behind me - quiet an' watchin'. And sometimes, he'd come to me in my dreams. But time went on, and he came less often, an' I felt him close by less often, an' all I could see ahead a me was more empty years, more lonely nights.  
  
"Six years, when I couldn't find cause for a bit of joy - not in my daughters, not in anything. All I could do was miss Jack, like missing a part of me."  
  
I nodded and figured that I knew what was coming. "And then?"  
  
He huffed a deep breath. "In 1989, a new owner bought the ranch where I was workin'. I want you t' know, Bobby, that I never went lookin' fer nobody - never wanted nobody else. But . . ."  
  
"But," I said quickly, "somebody else came lookin' for you. So what'd you do? Jump at the chance?"  
  
"No," he snapped. "I . . . I tried t' walk away. I tried, an' he jus' kept comin' back. He was - he _is_ a good man. An' I was so lonely, and so tired of bein' alone. An' I began to hear yer daddy's voice, like I hadn't heard it in years. Sayin' that I was bein' a damn fool, that there was no reason fer me to waste th' rest of my life, the way I wasted the first part of it."  
  
I rose then, and stood looking down at him. "So you decided that you'd suffered enough. Convinced yourself that it's what my daddy would have wanted for you.  That it?"  
  
After a brief hesitation, he nodded.  
  
"What else?"  
  
This time he wouldn't meet my eyes. "Mike - my new . . . friend, he felt like the only way it would work would be fer me to let go of all my ties t' Jack. To make new memories to replace the ones I had, to push Jack out of my heart."  
  
The pain in my heart this time was quiet, like an old ache renewing itself. "And you agreed?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
I waited, but then realized that I didn't need to hear any more. "You brought him here," I said. It wasn't a question; more like a last nail in an empty coffin.  
  
"I thought it wouldn't matter," he said faintly. "Jack would never know, and maybe it would help me t' break th' ties that still bound me t' Jack."  
  
"Did it work?"  
  
He sighed. "I thought so, for a while."  
  
I rose then and walked to the edge of the bluff, to look down on the surface of a lake glistening in the semi-darkness, as I debated what I would say next. To my own credit, I considered saying nothing more, allowing him to maintain whatever illusion of peace he had managed to construct for himself.  
  
But I'm not all that noble, I guess. Once more, I realized that I was my father's son, flaws, warts, and all.  
  
"You thought he'd never know," I called over my shoulder.  
  
He rose slowly, and came to stand beside me, gazing down into the water. I wondered, briefly, what it was that he was seeing. "Yes."  
  
"I wouldn't be so sure about that."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
I took a deep breath, and made sure to keep my voice level and dispassionate. "My father saved my life, you know."  
  
"He did?"  
  
"He did."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"I smashed my motorcycle into a light post . . . and I died."  
  
"You look pretty healthy for a dead man."  
  
I nodded. "Nevertheless, it's the truth." I turned to stare at him. "I was twenty years old."  
  
He thought for a moment, and his eyes grew wide and dark. "What do you . . ."  
  
"I died on the side of that Texas highway, and my father came to save me. He stood before me, as close as you are now, an' I remember thinkin' that I'd forgotten how beautiful he was. And all I wanted t' do was stay with him; be with him. But he wouldn't allow it. He made me go back. He touched me - just once - and I felt all his loneliness and all his love. Then he told me that I couldn't stay, that it wasn't my time. He turned me around; he gave me my life back - again."  
  
"How can you be sure it wasn't . . ."  
  
"A dream?" I smiled. "I think that's what I was supposed to believe, if I remembered it at all. But I know it was real. The paramedics told me, when I came around, that I'd actually died, for just a little while. And I know what I saw. I know what happened. My father was there. He did save me."  
  
At that moment, I saw the realization break over him. If I were right, if my father had been there to see what happened to me, to save me, then he might also have been there to see . . .  
  
"Dear God!" he whispered. "Dear God! If he saw . . ."  
  
"Yes," I answered, striving for some kind of compassion, but unable to summon much. "If he saw."  
  
By that time, I was past needing to hurt him, needing to inflict any more pain. Yet, I could not bring myself to remain silent - to let it remain unsaid. "Maybe," I said gently, "that's why he no longer comes to you."  
  
I left him then, whistled Tinker to my side, and retired to my sleeping bag, suddenly too weary to endure one more word. Yet it was a long time before I fell asleep. And still, Ennis Del Mar sat by the fire where he'd reseated himself, staring into the flames, dark and still and brooding, his thoughts his own.  
  
Each of us had retreated into our own house of mourning, and all was as it should be on the slopes of the great mountain.  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

TBC

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

 **Chapter 11**  
  
_Only in this place,  
In darkness where no prying eyes can see,  
In wilderness where no stranger strays,  
Beside the tumbled waters  
Where no voice can be heard,  
I wrap you in the heat of me,  
Hold you against the bulk of me,  
Breathe you, taste you, fold you in.  
  
I know that it is not enough,  
Will never be enough for you.  
I know that you sometimes weep for me,  
For what can never be,  
And that you turn away  
So that I will not know or see.  
I know anyway.  
  
Do you know that you are life to me,  
That you are everything that is beautiful  
And real and precious,  
The focus of my light,  
My shield against the darkness,  
My burnt sugar taste of joy,  
My only hope of heaven?  
  
You are the music of the rainfall,  
The sweet rebirth of morning,  
The bright pure laughter of a child -   
With summer's magic in your eyes.  
  
I bury my face against your hair,  
Breathe deep, and hold the scent of you inside me,  
To carry with me when you are far away,  
And I wonder if the day will come  
When you are broken by my fears,   
When your pain and loneliness  
Drive you to a place I cannot go,  
A time I cannot touch or share.  
  
Will I still feel you, breathe you, taste you then?  
Or will I hold you only in my dreams?  
Will my broken spirit weep within the darkness,  
And wish that I had told you when I had the chance?  
  
Will I pledge then what I cannot promise now?  
Will I find the strength to say it then?  
Or will I watch you go -  
And never learn to say it at all? _

_  
\-- Will I?_ \-- Cynical21  
  
  
Morning came, chilly and overcast, with wisps of fog clinging to the condensation-drenched surfaces of the mountain and tumults of iron-gray clouds obscuring the highest peaks. In a pearly pre-dawn pallor, Ennis came awake quickly, as always, even though it had been long past midnight when he'd finally given up his lonely vigil and retired to his insulated pallet. Even then, his limbs heavy with exhaustion both emotional and physical, he had resisted sleep; coming to complete awareness with an impatient, but soundless gasp, he refused to take refuge in the vagueness of that thought. The truth was that he had been afraid to sleep - afraid of what mindless release he might have sought in the unrestricted nature of his dreams, for there was no way of knowing - of being sure - that his traitorous sub-conscious mind might not free him from the restraints placed on him by his consciousness; no way of being certain that his traitorous body might not reach out in the night and take what lay so tantalizingly close in space and time and so infinitely far away in possibility.  
  
Bobby slept on, snoring slightly, curled around the warmth of the little pup that was snugged up against him, and Ennis allowed himself a moment - just a moment - of self-indulgence.   
  
How could he have let himself forget? How could he ever have believed that anybody - anybody - could be more beautiful, more perfect, more . . . Just more.  
  
Feature by feature, he knew: this was not his Jack. The face, though just as perfectly proportioned, was slightly thinner; the cheekbones, a little more deep-cut; the brow slightly higher, and the widow's peak a bit more pronounced; in those small but significant variations lay the distinctions that identified the young man as not Jack. But in other ways - especially the tendency of dark, thick hair to ignore the laws of gravity and stand on end, and the sweeping fringe of dark lashes so full they were like smudges against golden skin, as if someone had painted them with a coarse, stubby brush, and the dark stubble that emphasized the strong jawline and the lines of the body, long and lean and sculpted . . . Ennis rose and exited the tent in one less-than-smooth motion, driven by something that was almost panic.  
  
What the hell was he doing or thinking? This was not Jack; this was Jack's child, so completely off-limits that he was shamed by his own weakness.  
  
But - he staggered abruptly, almost going to his knees as the thought struck him - what if it had been? What if Jack had somehow come back to him? He was, in every way that mattered, taken - a full partner in a life-long relationship. As much a married man as it was possible for a gay man to be.   
  
He thought about Mike - really thought about him, as he had not allowed himself to think about him since he'd driven away from the ranch the previous morning. He loved Mike; through all the problems they'd endured - even recently - he'd never doubted that, never questioned that. He loved Mike; he belonged to Mike, and he had no desire to change that simple truth.  
  
Though denied any kind of formal ceremony or legal recognition, they were life partners and had pledged their loyalty and enduring commitment, in the presence of those members of their families who had been willing to bear witness to their resolve: Mike's children, although Ronnie had been unable to disguise the depth of his misgivings; Ennis' younger daughter, still shaken by the revelation of her father's sexual identity, but determined to demonstrate her loyalty and her liberal mindset, and his sister, newly refound and hungry enough for some kind of familial connection to overlook the circumstances of his relationship; Cora Littletree, who was no kin to either of them, but was family, nonetheless.   
  
Ennis had once considered himself "not the swearing kind", but life and circumstance had brought him to the realization that his inability to commit, to reach for the things that mattered most to him, had cost him the things that might have enabled him to change his life and realize his dreams. Had cost him Jack.  
  
He had no regrets. Jack had gone forever beyond his reach, had left him behind and embraced the darkness and found peace (he devoutly hoped) in eternal sleep, and he loved Mike, who was so much more than just a substitute, a replacement for what had gone before.  
  
But what if . . .  
  
He shook his head sharply, taking a deep breath and suddenly grateful for the sharpness of the air and the biting chill it sent into his lungs, bitter enough to startle him out of a semi-reverie that threatened to pull up questions he had never thought to confront. But his moment of soul-searching and uncertainty was not - quite - over.  
  
_"He turned me around. He gave me my life back - again."_  
  
He heard the words in his mind, echoing in the very bottom of his memories.  
  
_Jack?_ It was not even a whisper; barely even a coherent thought. _What did you do?  
_  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Bacon, thick-sliced and dark and still sizzling, hardtack biscuits, lumpy and firm but dripping with homemade blackberry jam, and coffee, strong enough to strip paint; according to Ennis Del Mar, a real cowboy breakfast. Bobby choked a bit at first, unaccustomed to such sturdy fare at such an early hour - except for the coffee, of course - but quickly realized that he would need plenty of energy to meet the physical demands of the day, tucking in and finishing everything on his tin plate.   
  
Tinker, of course, was in doggy heaven, ignoring his kibble and gnawing on whatever his human benefactors tossed his way.  
  
When Bobby became aware of Ennis Del Mar's scrutiny as he mopped up the last drip of jelly with a final crumb of biscuit, he glanced up quickly and surprised a look - _that_ look - in deep amber eyes. "What?" He was still trying to be patient, but being watched so frequently - and so hungrily - was beginning to get on his nerves.  
  
"Nothin'," came the quick response. Then a quick intake of breath, and a mumbled explanation. "Ya eat like yer daddy. That's all."  
  
"How's that?" There was genuine curiosity in the question, strong enough to overcome any irritation.  
  
Ennis' smile was gentle. "Like he had t' eat fast, afore somebody come along and tried t' take it away from him."  
  
Now it was Bobby's turn to study his companion's face and attempt to read the emotion buried in those dark eyes - and wonder. Then, reluctantly, he nodded, as he recognized the truth of the comment.  
  
"You calling him greedy?" The words were sharp, but there was a smile beneath them.  
  
Ennis grinned. "Naw. Jus' unwillin' t' settle fer less than he thought he deserved."  
  
Bobby's smile softened, and he sighed. Though he had been called a wordsmith by people smart enough and knowledgeable enough to use the term appropriately, he realized that he couldn't have said it better himself; the description of his father was letter-perfect.  
  
Jack Twist had never been willing to settle. Abruptly, a sharp breath caught in the young man's throat as something twisted in his gut; had that attitude ultimately gotten him killed?  
  
He looked up quickly and surprised a fleeting grimace on Ennis' face, and wondered if the old cowboy had stumbled upon the same thought.  
  
He might even have volunteered a comment - or a question - if the sun had not chosen that exact moment to edge over the cloud-blurred foothills strewn along the eastern horizon, and send its first streaks of brilliance out to gild the flanks of the mountain with glints of gold and copper as a swirl of starlings erupted from a stand of mountain spruce. Overhead, a red-tailed hawk rode a ray of pure sunlight across the shadowed bulk of the valley toward the rolling meadows beyond the lake as a pale scrap of rainbow flickered in the mist below the mountain's cumulus-draped crest.  
  
"Think it'll rain?" asked Bobby, remembering stories his father had told him about the violence and fury of Big Horn storms.  
  
Ennis glanced toward the west. "Later, mebbe. All a this . . ." the sweep of a hand indicated the trappings of a cloud-touched daybreak . . . "will burn off as the sun gets higher."   
  
Bobby nodded, and rose to begin dismantling the tent as Ennis started gathering up the cooking utensils. But Bobby hesitated, his eyes shadowed and his face suddenly vulnerable, appearing much younger than his twenty-nine years. "Ennis," he said softly, uncertainly, "I'm sorry for last night. I just . . ."  
  
But Ennis was not in the mood for apologies. "Ya got nothin' a be sorry fer," he said sharply. "You was jus' takin' up fer yer daddy, like ya should. He . . ." His voice was suddenly thick and guttural. "He'd be proud."  
  
Bobby turned then, and stared straight into dark eyes, turbulent with shadows. "Would he? I guess I'm not so sure."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
There was a heavy pause, and Bobby turned away, not at all sure he wanted to see how Ennis would react to his next words. "Because my daddy loved you. More than anything. More than my mother, more than his family, more than his life . . . more than me."  
  
"No, Bobby, don't . . ."  
  
"Yes." There was no uncertainty now, and not a single nuance of self pity. "Yes, he did. So now I'm asking myself if he'd really be proud of me, or just ashamed of the way I'm treating you."  
  
Ennis drew a deep breath before stepping forward, deliberately invading Bobby's space, demanding that the younger man meet his eyes. "I don't know if I got any answers ya want a hear, Bobby. But I know this. I cain't begin t' understand how ya must be feelin', t' stand here and face me down.  That takes more guts than anything I ever done in my life. An' if my kids ever found themselves in a fix like this, I know I'd be damned proud if they tried t' stand up fer me, like y'er doin' fer Jack."  
  
Bluer-than-blue eyes - dry and hard until that moment - were suddenly suspiciously bright. "Jus' tell me . . ." It was a whisper, semi-strangled.  
  
"I'll tell ya anything I can."  
  
The younger man struggled for composure, and for the right words. "I'm tryin' to see things through your eyes - and through Daddy's. In spite of sounding like I think he could do no wrong, in my heart I know better. He wasn't perfect - not by a long shot. He could be hard-headed and demanding and spiteful, and Lord knows, he was the kind of man who wanted what he wanted, when he wanted it, and it took me a long time - years even - to be able to accept him for the person he was. He was a good father to me. And he was good to my mother, but there's no denying that he would have left us both behind, if you'd been willing to take a chance with him. I don't think he'd have abandoned us completely - he cared too much for that - but I have no doubt that he'd have gone if you'd said the word. But still, after recognizing all that, and after understanding how much you meant to him, I don't believe he would have wanted you to spend the rest of your life tryin' to drown yourself in a bottle after he was gone."  
  
Ennis' eyes were suddenly huge - and darker. "You mean that?"  
  
The smile was shaky. "I'm trying to, but . . ."  
  
"But?"  
  
Deep breath, shoulders squaring, eyes narrow and focused. "But ya gave everything he ever wanted from you to somebody else. And I need to understand how you could do that for your 'partner' and why you could never do it for Daddy. I need to know if it was just that you never loved him enough - or what. And if you tell me it's none of my business, I'll have to live with that, but I still have to ask."  
  
Ennis stood for a moment, absolutely motionless. Then he turned and walked to the lip of the shelf, to stare down into the rosy dawn-kissed mirror of the lake.  
  
For a time, Bobby thought the man his father had loved beyond all reason would refuse to answer, that the secrets that had bound the two of them together in a hopeless dance of frustration and thwarted desires would remain forever buried.  
  
Then Ennis began to speak, and it was as if he was alone on that bluff, musing through his thoughts and unaware of being overheard.  
  
"I spent twenty years shovin' Jack away from me, pushin' him back, denyin' that what we had was anything but a crazy 'thing' that we needed a hide. I told myself that it didn't make me 'queer'; I couldn't be queer, cause I knew that no real man could be queer. So it wasn't me that was queer." He paused, and his next words were so bitter that they seemed to scrape against the soft tissues of his throat. "It was Jack. Fer twenty years, I told myself it was Jack. That he was the queer one - that I would a been fine, if he'd jus' left me alone."  
  
He knelt by the edge of the bluff, his shoulders hunched against the glitter of the sun. "Ya asked me if Jack knew that I loved 'im, and I said that he did. But the truth is that I don't really know for sure, because . . . because I never let myself know it, until it was too late. Fer twenty years, I never let myself say it or think it, and fer twenty years, I never let him bring it up. I couldn't risk it. I couldn't let 'im risk it."  
  
"So he didn't know?" Bobby's voice was thick with unshed tears.  
  
The reply was little more than a rasping breath. "I told myself he did, because I couldn't  stand t' think that he didn't. Ever'thing I did - ever' time I pushed him away, ever' time I walked away from 'im, it tore my guts out. I cain't tell ya how many hours I spent doubled up on the side a the road, pukin' m' guts out cause it hurt so Goddamned bad. Ever' single time, but I told myself it was for him - t' keep him safe, t' make sure that he didn't open his damn-fool mouth an' say things that'd let people know what he was."  
  
The pause was longer this time. "What we were. And after all that, after givin' up any hope of havin' the only thing I ever really wanted . . ."  
  
"Ennis, I . . ."  
  
**"** _He died anyway_ **.** " It wasn't just a shout; it was a primeval scream that tore through the fields and forests and mountainside like the bellow of a dying beast, raw and bleeding and primitive. The world went silent for a time, as the wilderness echoed to the pain and the bottomless grief and loneliness.  
  
Bobby could think of nothing to say, so he didn't try.  
  
"He died anyway." This time it was barely a whisper. "And I understood, for the first time, how wrong I'd been, because - without Jack - my life was barren  an' empty. For the first time, I knew the truth - that it wasn't Jack that trapped me in the 'thing' we had. That the 'thing' we had was the only thing that ever really mattered in my life. So I stopped carin' - about anything. When Jack went, he took all the light out a my life. There was nothin' left."  
  
And Bobby stepped forward and awkwardly laid his hand on Ennis' shoulder. "You did love him." It wasn't a question.  
  
A nuance of morning breeze stirred blossoms of wild columbine and set them dancing as the old cowboy offered his response, so softly that the zephyr threatened to drown him out. "Like you could never imagine. Like I could never love anyone else. Ever."  
  
Bobby knew that he should remain silent, should just accept it, but he found that he couldn't, that he had to be sure. "Even your partner?"  
  
The hurt in dark amber eyes was bottomless, but not dense enough to hide the truth. "Mike . . . Mike is a good man. He saved me. Pulled me out of a nightmare you can't even imagine. But Jack." He drew a deep shaky breath. "There's only one Jack."  
  
And tears rose in his eyes as he realized the elementary truth of it. There would, forever, be only one Jack. He understood and admitted it to himself for the first time, and knew he could never admit that truth to Mike, even though he was pretty sure his life-partner already knew. And he knew something else; he had allowed himself to be pulled out of the despair of his grief and into a new life because - at least in part - he no longer cared enough to resist. There had no longer been a Jack Twist to defend and protect.  
  
Jack had left him behind, and the only comforts he'd known after that bleak day had slowly eroded to nothingness when the presence he constantly sought, the warmth that had occasionally seemed to touch him in the night, had dwindled to no more than wisps of memory.  
  
_"He turned me around. He gave me my life back - again."_  
  
There it was again; the fragment of a thought that was too nebulous to be termed a fully formed idea, but would not be ignored.  
  
_Jack, what did you do?_  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
The second day was different, after that emotional outburst on the bluff overlooking the lake. The two rode abreast, not saying much, but saying a lot with minimal conversation. And they both learned things about the man who was their only common interest.  
  
Ennis confined his comments to scraps of memory - pointing out the spot where he and Jack had first pastured the sheep back in '63 and where Jack had pitched his pup tent, to spend the night looking down toward the distant fire of the base camp; the knoll where Jack had attempted, repeatedly, to snuff out a prowling coyote, proving in the process that coyotes, elks - and broad sides of barns - were safe from assault when Jack Twist was wielding the rifle, or, as Ennis occasionally suspected, that the hand had been somewhat unsteady because the heart wasn't really in the attempt; the sunlit glade where he had brought down an elk, to supplement their meager food stores and go some way toward silencing the constant bitching of the young ruffian at his side; the campsite where they had shared stories of their youth and Jack had done his ridiculous impression of a bull rider putting on a show for his fans; the remains of a nest where an American eagle had once spied on the activities of two human usurpers in its realm, one of whom had been arrogant enough to sport an eagle feather tucked into a hat band. He talked of a damaged harmonica, blown with too much enthusiasm and too little ability; of an exuberant young tenor voice that frequently bellowed scraps of hymns and raunchy lyrics, but sometimes, at rare, precious moments, lapsed into unexpected sweetness, in softly murmured ballads and half-remembered folk songs; of a feisty mare with her dark-haired, blue-eyed cowboy in the saddle, the joining of horse and rider forming a vision of singular grace; of hail storms and snow drifts, of the stupidity of sheep and the stubbornness of mules and the cunning of predators, and - most of all - of Jack; Jack as he had been during that first summer, and Jack, as he had changed over the years.  
  
For a long time, Bobby was content to listen, but Ennis seemed to grow more and more taciturn as the day progressed, as the memories he shared seemed to darken, becoming more and more somber, and Bobby would pitch in then, to fill the more awkward silences, offering up little stories and snippets of memory.   
  
The sun had passed its zenith and begun its long slide toward evening when they reined in their horses and dismounted in a small, sun-dappled glade at the foot of a steep trail that lead upwards toward a narrow plateau. At the edge of the clearing, in a natural grotto, a spring had formed, welling into a deep, narrow pool, its water almost icy in its purity. They watered the horses, and then drank deeply, before finding seats on a slab-like boulder that jutted out from the water's edge while Tinker took advantage of the break to explore the wooded area and send a squirrel scurrying for its nest. The stone was warm from the summer sunlight, and Ennis, who had slept little the night before, lay back and drowsed against its soporific comfort.  
  
When Bobby began to talk, his voice was gentle and took on the cadence of the light wind that brushed through the foliage above them.  
  
"I didn't know it when it was happening," he said, "didn't understand that he did a lot of the things he did because he'd never had anyone to do them for him. He was . . . God, he was everything to me. When I got my first bike, he was there to pick me up when I fell, and hold me upright until I learned how to ride it. When I played little league baseball and football, he was always there, helping out the coaches, making sure our team had everything we needed, hauling equipment and coolers of drinks and making sure every team had a sponsor. Coaching first base and high-fiving everybody who beat out a throw - especially the kids that didn't manage to do it very often - and making sure that nobody picked on anybody. When I had trouble in school, it was Daddy that tackled the problem, Daddy that wouldn't let me slide, Daddy that found the solution. When our Scout troop needed chaperones for a canoe trip or a camping expedition or somebody to teach us how to build a campfire, Daddy was the one that volunteered. When I was eight and so scared of the water that I didn't want to learn to swim, he was the one who taught me. Mama wanted to send me to some fancy swimming instructor at the local college, but he wouldn't hear of it. He taught me himself. He taught me everything - to ride, to throw and catch a football, to drive a tractor, to saddle a horse, even how to handle long division, even though I'm pretty sure he never completely mastered it himself. Everything that was worth knowing, he taught me.  
  
"At the same time, he was doing a hell of a job in the machinery business - so good that my grandfather was annoyed as hell, because, try as he would, he couldn't come up with any real reasons to bitch about him, though that never stopped the old SOB from trying. While the infamous Good Ol' Boys' network - the rich old farts that were part of my grandfather's generation - never had much use for Daddy, he was welcome in a lot of places that the High and Mighty of Childress would never have had any interest in going. Daddy liked people, and - mostly - they liked him. And he liked helping people. L. D. had a bunch of Hispanics working for him, and he mostly treated them like shit. But Daddy was good to them, and they returned the favor. They worked twice as hard for him - and for Mama - as they ever would have worked for L. D., and lots of folks figure that was a big part of the company's success. He used to take me down to visit with them, and to play with their kids, and it made L. D. furious to think that his grandson was hanging out with Spics and greasers, but Daddy just ignored his ranting, like he ignored most everything else the old man complained about."  
  
He paused and turned to stare down into the inky depths of the water. "Of course, it was the members of the Old Guard that got 'im in the end. None of the friends he'd made could do anything to save him."  
  
Bobby lay back on the boulder then and gazed up into the sky, noting a bank of cumulus clouds forming in the southwest. "They went to Paris the year before he died - him and Mama; did you know that?"  
  
Ennis turned his head to gaze at the younger man's profile and managed to ignore the stirring in his loins. "Paris . . . like in France?"  
  
"Yup. Won the trip through one of the big tractor manufacturers."  
  
"Son of a bitch!" said Ennis, with a smile. "Jack Twist in Paris. Don't that beat all? How'd he like it?"  
  
Bobby laughed softly. "Depends on whose version you believe. According to Daddy, he liked the wine and the chocolates and the people and the French cigarettes well enough, but got tired real quick of everything tasting like fish; said he couldn't wait to get home to a bottle of Jack Daniels and some barbequed ribs. But according to Mama, the French girls were all over him, like bees to honey - lovin' that smile and those dimples and making Mama mad as a wet hen, while he was eating it up."  
  
Ennis thought a minute. "Yup, that sounds like Jack, all right."  
  
Bobby just nodded, and closed his eyes against the glare. "They went a lot of places, over the years. Hawaii, Puerto Rico, New York, Bermuda, Vienna. Had some pretty good times, I guess."  
  
Ennis shaded his eyes with his arm. "He never told me."  
  
Bobby turned to read the expression in Ennis' eyes, noticing the faint vein of sadness in those four simple words. "Because it never really mattered," he said. "It was all just frosting on the cake to him, I guess. Didn't matter where he went or what he did; none of it was really important to him. He'd have told you, if it was. I think I mattered to him, and my mama mattered. And his mama. But what really mattered . . . was you."

  
Ennis sat up quickly, but not before Bobby had seen and recognized the quick flash of gratitude in his eyes.   
  
He rose, a little stiff from sitting at an awkward angle, and tucked his shirt into his jeans, a motion that appeared so habitual that it was almost a reflex. "Best get going. Two more hours should get us there, and then we can set up camp, and you can show me if you're any better at fishin' than yer daddy was. Which ain't saying shit since he never could catch nothin' to save his life."  
  
"From what I figured out about those 'fishin' trips'," Bobby retorted quickly, "he was usually busy elsewhere."  
  
Ennis's ears were suddenly fiery red, and Bobby couldn't quite swallow the laughter that rose in his throat. Jesus Christ! He almost strangled on the thought. Did I really just make a joke about my Daddy . . . and _not_ fishing? Jesus Christ!  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
On their final approach to the campsite Ennis had in mind, they were treated to one of the Big Horns' legendary thunderstorms and forced to take cover under an outcropping of striated slate. Luckily, though fierce and intense and loud enough to be intimidating, the storm was short-lived, and they were able to continue their journey after a brief delay, only slightly the worse for wear. The entire mountain sparkled under the re-emergence of the sun, brighter somehow for the interruption - meadows and foliage and gem-toned wildflowers and dark sweeps of stone jeweled by the prismatic radiance of golden light refracted by raindrops.  
  
They emerged, at last, from a stand of dense coniferous trees, picking their way around sprawling juniper shrubs that reduced the trail to a slim thread in some spots, and found a rough, heavily-veined cliff wall rising vertically before them, with a narrow path veering off to the right, thickly carpeted with many years' accumulation of pine needles. They had been quiet for the last few minutes, concentrating on guiding the horses through the final switchbacks of the steep path, and Ennis had fallen back a bit, allowing Bobby to forge ahead and reach the plateau first.  
  
The younger man spurred his sorrel mare lightly, renewing his grip on the little pup that was snuggled tight against his lap, and urged the horse to follow the curving path into the brilliant sunlight that glittered invitingly just beyond the bulk of the cliff, and she obeyed smartly, demonstrating the quality of her training at Ennis Del Mar's hands. Thus, she erupted from the shadows in one quick lunge, and Bobby went as still as carved marble, dumbstruck by the vista that opened out before him.  
  
For a few seconds, he could not utter a word, could barely even catch his breath, and only marginally noticed that Tinker was struggling to be free.  
  
Young Robert Twist, though Texas born and bred and a cowboy at heart and a true son of his father, was not without a certain level of sophistication. Born to money and not averse to spending it, he had traveled far and seen much in his short life; he had ridden a barge down the Nile and marveled at the incredible variety of life along its banks; had traveled through the Alps and Germany's magnificent Black Forest on a train ride that was composed of nothing but moment after moment of breathtaking vistas; had journeyed through the plains and jungles of Africa and been left speechless with wonder at the richness of the various cultures, the staggering courage of the people, and the warmth of their spiritual lives; sailed through the incredible sapphire waters of the Aegean and Mediterranean Seas and spent weeks lolling in the sun on the beaches of Greek Islands and savoring the simple joys and generosity of the inhabitants; walked the streets of Paris and London and Rome and felt, in each of them, the richness of history stirring around him, but nothing in his life could have prepared him for the moment when he rode into air as clear as polished crystal to find the entire spectacle of Brokeback Mountain stretched out before him, every facet perfect and beautiful and matchless.  
  
Ennis paused within the cover of the tree line and was content to watch the young man's reaction, calling up in his mind's eye the response experienced more than thirty years earlier by another beautiful, young cowboy who had been stricken speechless - possibly for the first time in his garrulous life. At that time, of course, they had ridden side-by-side, discovering the stunning sweep of perfection together, neither able to articulate the wonder they shared.  
  
Bobby slid from his saddle and walked to the edge of the plateau, his dog dancing around his feet as his eyes widened to try to take in everything at once, even though it was not possible to see it all as a whole picture. Below and around him, encompassing a sweeping 240 degrees of visual scope, the mountain fell away, washed in crystal shades of violet and mauve and magenta and pearl, exposing the entire breadth of its surface, laced with deep-etched channels carved by rivers and streams that cut deep toward the bedrock that had formed the foundation for the huge mountain during the dim ages of pre-history. Across the sweeping meadows that covered its flanks, the deep emerald of evergreen foliage caressed the countryside, draping over broad shoulders like soft wraps of velvet, the color growing deeper as the trees grew thicker in the center of heavy forested clusters, with glints of obsidian accenting sprays of garnet and plum and topaz that dappled the jade sweeps of grassland.  
  
Off to the left, a subdued rushing sound drew Bobby to turn and peer around the final outcropping of stone, and he paused again, thunderstruck. The mountainside, while composed of multitudes of sheer drops and steep contrasts and an incredible variety of land masses and shapes, did not, for some reason, support many waterfalls. Mostly, the natural tumble of rushing streams was confined to series of cascades and boulder-strewn switchbacks, and fragmented rushes across rock faces. But here, in this one place, that lack was addressed, as a thick plume of water fell away into the brilliance of the day, to land in great splashes of platinum in an indigo pool on a lower plateau that brimmed quickly and emptied itself into another long plunge toward a boulder-lined abyss far below. In the glare of sunlight, droplets hung in the air and created flickering scraps of rainbow radiance that painted the water's surface with gleams of jewel tones.  
  
Bobby stared up toward the source of the falling water but could not see its origin as it poured over the edge of a huge canted stone that emerged from the mountain's face some twenty meters above him.  
  
At that moment, Ennis moved forward and joined him in looking up, though his gaze followed a slightly different path, tracing a rocky trail that disappeared into a gap in the cliff overhead, a notch in the side of the granite slab, and wondered. Would it still be the same - the place he and Jack had discovered together, the place that they'd claimed as their own in a way he was pretty sure no one else ever would? He wasn't sure, and wouldn't be sure until the next morning when he climbed up there to see for himself. He could have gone early, of course, and checked it out, but somehow it just didn't seem to be the thing to do. He would wait for sunrise, and make the climb with Bobby Twist at his side.  
  
Just the way it was meant to be, although he had no idea why he was so sure of the rightness of it.  
  
He would see it exactly as he had seen it so many years before, with the light breaking over it like amber liquid, painting an unforgettable portrait of . . . but, of course, there would be no body, long and loose-limbed and gloriously bare. There would only be the memory - indelible, burned forever into his mind and his heart. Jack, as he had been at nineteen; Jack, as he would always be in the deepest core of Ennis' being.  
  
He glanced once more toward Bobby, enjoying the expression of wonder in the young man's face and realized that, no matter what this little excursion might have cost him, no matter how painful it might have been or yet prove to be, he owed a huge debt of gratitude to young Bobby Twist. Bobby was not Jack, but he was close enough to being an alternative version of Jack that he had managed to stir the memories that enabled Ennis to resurrect the man who had claimed his heart when he'd been nothing more than a boy himself - the man the years had taken from him.  
  
In a strange way, Jack had come back to him, reclaiming the heart that had never truly been whole without him.  
  
And Ennis knew he would never again relinquish his hold on that which was most precious to him.  
  
Quickly, he dismounted and got busy setting up their camp, knowing that this was not the time for sharing thoughts. Some things, after all, one must keep to one's self - today, tomorrow - maybe even forever.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
They had talked hardly at all as night set in. Bobby had quickly demonstrated that he was no more a fisherman than his father had been, and Ennis had done no better, but the cowboy's camping stores had yielded canned chili and beans and fruit cocktail and a package of Fig Newtons - not exactly a gourmet meal but good enough and satisfying for appetites whetted by a hard ride and repeated bouts of emotional upheaval. Tinker, of course, was in doggy heaven, once again ignoring his kibble and sharing his master's meal with great enthusiasm.  
  
"My daddy hated beans," Bobby remarked, as Ennis retrieved the last of the cans of beer from their spot in the pool at the edge of the plateau. Ennis paused in mid-stride, and felt an odd stirring in his gut, and couldn't, for a moment, figure out why. Then it struck him; throughout their rambling, they had talked about Jack Twist, from two completely different perspectives. But here was elemental truth; Bobby's Jack, of the world trips and the little league coaching and the machinery business, and Ennis' Jack, of the constant bitching and the rodeo roughhousing and the harmonica-playing, were one and the same person. The same Jack.  
  
"Yeah," Ennis agreed, feeling a ridiculous urge to grin, "I know."  
  
They sat by the fire and drank their beer; then they switched to whiskey, and spent most of the evening simply enjoying the sigh of the night breeze and the emergence of the moon above a bank of clouds rising in the East.  
  
Finally, as his eyes grew heavy, and he knew that he could not stay awake much longer, Bobby looked over at Ennis, who was staring into the fire, as if it held all the secrets of the universe. And maybe it did - or maybe those answers were locked up somewhere behind those deep amber eyes.  
  
"Ennis?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You . . . you gonna be all right? I mean, with . . . everything?"  
  
Ennis looked up, and Bobby saw that his lips were upturned in a soft smile. "Yeah, Bobby. I'm gonna be fine."  
  
Bobby nodded, and thought he should probably drop it, but couldn't - quite. "I never meant to screw up your life. That's not what I meant to do, and I hope . . ."  
  
"Just stop worryin' about it, Bob. Ya done what needed doin', what should a been done a long time ago. An' ya helped me t' remember things I never should a let myself forget. And I'm grateful. So just get some sleep. Dawn comes early."  
  
Bobby took one last swig of Jack Daniels, before making his way to the tent where sleep came easy.  
  
Some time later, Ennis paused as he moved toward his sleeping bag, and spent a quick moment staring down at the face that was so familiar and so like Jack. But was not, ultimately, Jack at all.  
  
He lay in the darkness and waited for his unease of the previous night to return, but it didn't, and he understood, after a time, that his body had finally reached the right conclusion. Jack was gone, and there was no way to resurrect him, except in dreams of the past. Then he smiled and nestled into the blanket that served as his pillow, and allowed sleep to take him where it would.  
  
Until the first glowing promise of sunrise brought the approach of the long-awaited moment, the moment when Jack Twist would finally be laid to rest in the place of his choosing - would finally come home.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
By unspoken agreement, they did not talk. Nor did they eat or drink coffee or take any action to prepare for the day.  
  
They simply rose and approached the trail up the cliff, each grasping a small stone canister. Tinker, for whatever reason that might have influenced his canine consciousness, remained in camp, tucked snugly into Bobby's still warm sleeping bag.  
  
The pre-dawn light was pale, but crystal clear, allowing them to navigate the steep, rock-strewn path with ease, and pull themselves up through a narrow opening in a jumble of boulders to step out onto the expanse of dark granite as the eastern sky showed streaks of saffron and coral and rose.  
  
Ennis paused as he stood at the edge of the promontory and allowed his eyes to sweep the surface, seeing what was there to see - and what was not.  
  
It was the same - exactly as it had been more than thirty years before. Pristine, lush, untouched, incredibly beautiful, just as it had been the first time he'd seen it, with one major difference, of course. This time, there was no Jack Twist, smiling, stretching and flexing like a great cat, and bare as a newborn baby.   
  
The sunrise had been imminent then, as it was now, illuminating the broad pocket of alluvial soil, undoubtedly deposited long ago by upheavals in the earth's crust, providing a deep layer of rich, moist loam that covered a broad crescent-shaped swath of the rocky shelf, where the stone outcropping intersected the vertical roughness of the cliff, trailing to nothingness beside the aperture where the great mass of the waterfall erupted from its journey through a subterranean path within the mountain's bulk to stun the eye of anyone fortunate enough to witness its resurgence into the light.  
  
From the richness of the soil pocket, a profusion of wildflowers formed a wild tangle - the golden richness of alpine buttercups, the deep blues of harebells and alpine forget-me-nots, the rose and lavender and ivory of mountain bells, the sweet blush pinks of columbine, the deep violets of pasqueflowers, and the striking crimson of Indian paintbrush, and a wealth of other blossoms that Ennis could not name, all erupting into a pendulous tumble that sprayed over the edge of the outcropping, echoing the graceful spray of the water that arched beyond them, eager to catch and refract the first rays of sunlight.  
  
It was just there, amid that glorious bedlam of lush color and thick greenery, that Jack had lain in wait for him that morning. He remembered it vividly, remembering the beauty of the setting, but, ultimately, remembering that the natural wonders had paled in comparison to the loveliness of the vision of Jack, naked and eager and smiling. He remembered his raging need, the raw hunger that had sent him racing forward, dropping his clothing as he went, so that when they had come together, there was nothing to prevent skin from impacting skin, bodies from entwining and joining, and Jack's body from opening to him, pulling him in, engulfing him, drowning him in the exquisite essence of Jack Twist.  
  
He was stunned by the vivid quality of the vision and suddenly overjoyed that this memory, at least, remained unsullied, untouched. In this place, they had come together with a passion and intensity that surpassed any that they'd ever shared before. And he had never shared that thought, that memory - or this place - with anyone else.  
  
And he knew in that moment that he had chosen well. This was the place.  
  
"Ennis? You all right?"  
  
Bobby's voice seemed to rise from far away, even though he was standing close at hand.  
  
"I'm fine," he answered, suppressing a sudden urge to shout with joy for the rightness of the moment. "Just a few minutes now. You ready?"  
  
Bobby heard the strange note in the cowboy's voice and understood suddenly that this place was truly sacred, not only to his father, but to the man who had shared it with him. He couldn't help but wonder why, but realized that there were some things he was simply not mean to know.  
  
"Ready," was all he said.  
  
They moved then to the lip of the outcropping, careful to spread out and leave space between them; then each opened the canister he held, and waited.  
  
When the sun crested the eastern hills, it did so quickly, springing up to bring morning, touching the hills beneath it with scarlet fire.  
  
Both Ennis and Bobby took a deep breath, and murmured their own benediction for what was about to happen.  
  
Bobby stepped to the very edge of the stone, and, as the first pure ray of sunlight struck him, he thrust the canister forward forcefully, releasing a broad spray of pale powder which seemed to hover for a moment in the dawn stillness. Then a faint breeze touched the young man's face, and he watched as it swirled through the cloud of ash and bore it outward, into the spray of water rushing out to greet the dawn brilliance, where it was lost in scraps of rainbow, struck by the earliest beams of sunrise.  
  
"Welcome home, Daddy," whispered Bobby, almost overwhelmed by the rush of joy that swelled within him.  
  
Then he turned and watched as Ennis completed his own ritual, in his own way.  
  
Unlike Bobby's dramatic gesture, Ennis simply reached out and upended the cylinder he held, allowing pale ash to pour forth into the mist of morning. In the breathlessness of the moment, the particles seemed to disperse into a cloud that lingered to form a halo around the tall figure at its center, and a shaft of pearly light angled in to ignite the bits of ash into a fleeting radiance that wrapped Ennis like a cloak. When he slowly settled to his knees, it swirled around him, clinging briefly, before taking wing in the rush of dawn and riding a sudden upward rush of wind, finally dissipating in a prism of pure light.  
  
Then it was done, and Ennis Del Mar seemed to collapse in upon himself, his face buried in his hands, cowering away from the light.  
  
Bobby didn't have to stop to think about it, didn't spend a moment wondering if it was the right thing to do. He simply stepped forward and knelt, gathering his father's lover into his arms, offering his strength, his serenity, and the only forgiveness he knew how to give.  
  
They sat there for a long time - long enough for Ennis to become aware of what had happened, what was happening.  
  
_Not Jack, not Jack, not Jack_ . . . It was a litany he chanted in his mind. Yet, some part of him insisted that the young man beside him was, at least, a part of Jack, a piece of Jack, and he was able, at last, to take some comfort from that awareness. Even when he turned his face, and gently, tentatively, dropped a single kiss against young Bobby Twist's throat.  
  
And Bobby, after an infinitesimal flinch, relaxed and allowed it, realizing, finally, that it was the only benediction he had to give.  
  
Finally, as one, they rose and turned to gaze out into the morning and to spend one last moment in the pastel haze of memory.  
  
Then it was time, and Ennis found it was much harder to turn and walk away than he'd expected.  
  
_Good-bye, L'il Darlin'_.  
  
Across the plummeting rush of the water, he spied movement and watched, spellbound, as an eagle rose from the skeletal branches of a dead tree and beat its wings as it rose into the liquid radiance of morning.  
  
And the thought - half-formed, tremulous, uncertain - came to him again, refusing to be ignored.  
  
_"He turned me around. Gave me my life back - again."_  
  
The eagle soared, and disappeared beyond the dark bulk of the mountain.  
  
_Jack, what did you do?_  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
They made it back to the trailhead by the end of the day, although evening was coming on quickly by the time they arrived, and there was little time for rehashing or discussing.  
  
It had been a strange day, given more to indulging in contemplation, in resurrected memories and introspection, than in conversations or emotional exchanges. Yet, both seemed comfortable with the protracted silences, capable of speaking when they found it necessary, and refraining from doing so if not compelled to break the silence.  
  
They had eaten breakfast before breaking camp, but neither had been in any mood to discuss the experience they had shared as dawn broke over the mountain. As the day wore on, they both became more and more convinced that any discussion they might share would only detract from the perfection of the experience and the sacred quality of the moment.  
  
Some things were better understood - and honored - in silence.  
  
Even Tinker had seemed subdued, content to drowse across Bobby's saddle, with only an occasional wriggling attempt to get closer, to reach up and bury his nose in the crease of his master's throat and demand the attention to which cute little dogs should always be entitled. But Bobby, while never failing to respond as required, remained slightly distracted, something far away and shadowed in his eyes.  
  
Packing up at the trailhead was a matter of a no more than a half hour, allowing time for Bobby to spend a few minutes stroking the throat of the mare that Ennis had raised from a colt - the foal of another spirited mare, a beautiful sorrel named Gypsy Twist, which had once been the favored mount of another member of the Twist family. As he stood with his face nestled against the mare's flank, he felt, once more, as if his father was standing nearby, smiling.  
  
Finally, when there was no more cause for dawdling, Bobby turned to meet the gaze of his father's long-time companion and struggled to find the right words. But there was, finally, not much left to say, except . . .  
  
"Thank you, Ennis." His voice was soft, hesitant. "I couldn't have done this without you. I wouldn't have even known where to start. My dad - I think he'd be grateful too. So . . . "  


"Yer daddy," Ennis said firmly, "never had no call t' be grateful to me, not then and not now. Jack was . . ." He paused, unable to continue.  
  
"It's okay," said Bobby quickly. "You don't have to say . . ."  
  
"Yes. I do have to say." The old cowboy's voice was firm now, and his words forceful and sure. "Everything I ever had, everything that ever meant anything to me . . . it was Jack that provided it. And I took an' took an' took from 'im, unable t' ever give anything back. I was too scared of everything. Even of the truth. An' it's too late now fer me to tell 'im that I'm sorry, that I'd give anything - everything - t' be able t' have just one more minute t' stand an' face 'im. T' tell 'im that I loved 'im more than I could ever say, and that I wish I could take back every time I sent 'im away, every time I hurt 'im. But I cain't say it t' him. I can only say it . . . t' you. An' promise you one thing. In the past, I let myself forget 'im, because I couldn't deal with th' hurt and the pain of knowin' how I failed 'im. But I promise you, that ain't ever gonna happen again."  
  
Once more, Bobby found himself speechless and overwhelmed with gratitude for Ennis' willingness to bare feelings that he had been concealing for most of his life.  
  
Finally, he just nodded, then unlocked his truck door and reached for a package stowed behind the seat. "Got something for you," he said quickly. He leaned forward abruptly and thrust the object into Ennis' hands, refusing to allow himself time to rethink his actions or change his mind.  
  
Ennis frowned, obviously puzzled. "What is this? What . . ."  
  
He fell silent as he tore away the protective covering, and saw the painting that had hung in Jack Twist's study for so many years - the painting that Bobby had christened "Daddy's golden cowboy."  
  
"Bobby, I cain't take this," he said slowly. "This was yer Daddy's, an' . . ."  
  
"I know," Bobby interrupted firmly. "But this is the right thing to do. I can't exactly explain how I know that, but I do know it. It's what he would have wanted."  
  
A shy smile touched Ennis' features. "Do I really look like this?"  
  
Bobby laughed. "Ask somebody else. I'm not a very good judge. Not objective enough."  
  
Ennis simply stood for a while, looking down at the face that purported to be his. Then he looked up, and saw that Bobby's eyes were dark with unspoken thoughts. He cleared his throat then, and moved to stow the painting in the cab of his truck, placing it carefully to be sure it would not fall. When he spoke, he was not looking toward Bobby, and the younger man had a suspicion that it was because he didn't want to allow anyone to see the emotions that might be flaring in his eyes.   
  
"You gonna remember this?" he asked. "Really remember it?"  
  
"You think I could forget it?" Bobby allowed a small nuance of annoyance to show in his voice.  
  
Ennis shrugged, still not turning to show his face. "We all forget things, over time."  
  
Bobby was still uncertain of why Ennis had to ask, but he hastened to offer assurance. "I'll remember. You don't have to wonder about that."  
  
Then Ennis turned and met Bobby's eyes. "Mebbe we should . . . come back - sometime."  
  
"Soooo," Bobby drew the syllable out, still pondering the underlying meaning of the conversation, "we should come back . . . so I won't forget?"  
  
"Sure." The answer was brusque. Then brown eyes locked with blue, and all pretenses fell away. "It's important."  
  
Bobby grinned. "Same time next year?"  
  
Ennis turned away, but there was no hiding the tell-tale flush that rose on his neck. "Sounds good."  
  
Jack Twist's son understood that he would never know Ennis Del Mar the way his father had known him, but he understood suddenly that this was important, even though he wasn't sure why. But he found that, ultimately, it didn't matter; he was simply relieved that he would not be forced to sever all contact with the man who had known his father better than anyone else ever would or could. He doubted that any relationship he might manage to develop with Ennis Del Mar would prove to be easy or even pleasant; yet, he wanted the opportunity to give it a try, to preserve one of the few connections he had left to the man he had lost so early in his life.  
  
"Need t' give you somethin'," Ennis said quickly, withdrawing a thick, sealed manila envelope from the glove box of his truck and handing it to Bobby.  
  
"What's this?" asked Bobby, studying the heavily-sealed flap, and noting that there was nothing written on the outside except his name.  
  
"Just something I need you to keep for me."  
  
"Keep for how long?"  
  
Ennis' smile was enigmatic. "As long as it takes."  
  
"But how will I know . . ."  
  
"You'll know," Ennis said quickly.   
  
"Ennis, I . . ."  
  
But once more, those deep, shadowed eyes asked, and Bobby could not refuse. "Is it important?" he asked, finally.  
  
Ennis smiled. "Yeah. It is."  
  
"All right then. I'll keep it for you, as long as it takes."  
  
In the end, Bobby was the first to leave, his face solemn and still, with Tinker plastered against the rear window, watching as Ennis was lost in the thick gloom of twilight.  
  
But still, Ennis lingered for a while, allowing his gaze to sweep across the glittering surface of the lake, the velvet darkness of the woodland framed by the setting sun, and - finally - the bulk of the mountain as the light retreated from its flanks, leaving it a dark and silent silhouette against emerging stars, stars that glistened like gems in a crown.  
  
In the darkness, the old cowboy didn't bother to wipe away the tears that brimmed in his eyes.  
  
"Good-bye, Li'l Darlin'. I swear . . ."  
  
But even then, as the incredible day drew to its close, he wasn't sure what it was he meant to say.  
  
He drove away finally, but there was no denying that a part of him stayed behind, lingering in a place where eagles soared and flowers bloomed and ashes rode the wind.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 TBC

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
_I feel the trembling tingle of a sleepless night  
Creep through my fingers and the moon is bright  
Beams of blue come flickering through my window pane  
Like gypsy moths that dance around a candle flame  
  
Moonlight used to bathe the contours of your face  
While chestnut hair fell all around the pillow case,  
And the fragrance of your flowers rest beneath my head  
A sympathy bouquet left with the love that's dead  
  
Never thought the words you said were true  
Never thought you said just what you meant  
Never knew how much I needed you  
Never thought you'd leave, until you went  
  
Morning comes and morning goes with no regret  
And evening brings the memories I can't forget  
Empty rooms that echo as I climb the stairs  
And empty clothes that drape and fall on empty chairs  
  
And I wonder if you know  
That I never understood  
That although you said you'd go  
Until you did I never thought you would.  
  
Empty Chairs_ \--- Don McLean  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
Ennis was not in a particularly contemplative mood as he headed back toward Montana; thus he failed to marvel - as he had occasionally done in the past - at how a single, relatively small geographical area could be home to such a wealth of extreme contrasts. The vivid upthrusts and tumults of the Big Horn Mountains ended abruptly, where the vast plain stretched away toward infinity; he had been moved, once in a while, in moments of desultory brooding, to wonder if some giant hand had not plunked the great stone monoliths down into the limitless flatlands, driven by a whimsical urge to relieve the monotony of the one and disturb the smug composure of the other. Although Ennis Del Mar would not have used those words, exactly.  
  
But on this occasion, he was too much involved in a whirlwind of wondering and a maelstrom of memories - both old and new - to waste time on idle thoughts.  
  
At first, as he'd left the trailhead behind him, he'd expected to spend some short time musing over the hours he'd spent on the mountain and the conversations he'd shared with young Bobby Twist and, perhaps more understandably, wrapped up tight in the memories the young man's words and his own reminiscences had stirred. But he'd also realized that the trip had taken on some of the qualities of an excursion into a fairy tale world - a world from which he'd been forcibly and irrevocably ejected a dozen years before. Jack Twist had been a real, flesh-and-blood, hard-bodied, vivid individual, but his life had drained out of him as he'd lain sprawled and brutalized beside a lonely, godforsaken Texas highway; what remained now were only soft echoes of the man he had been, and pale shadows of the reality he'd inhabited.  
  
There had never been any chance of returning to the world in which Jack had lived, and there never would be.  
  
So it was only sensible to turn away from the pastel watercolor scraps of resurrected time and re-enter the real world - the one he'd been avoiding thinking about throughout his trip. He had decisions to make, hard-edged, no-nonsense decisions that required focus and a clear mind. Jack, after all, was beyond needing his help or his attention; Mike, however, was front and center in the demand for his focus, the definitive component of right now.  
  
So why is it, he asked himself, after an hour of following the two-lane highway north, that I still can't think of anything except _that_ smile and _those_ eyes and how it felt to cover that sweet mouth and . . .  
  
Disgusted with his own maundering, he pulled off the road at a rundown little truck stop, to gas up and fill his thermos with black coffee, strong enough to eat nails. After a big slab of apple pie and a bit of conversation with a friendly but homely little waitress, he felt better, and was able to resume his journey with a clearer mind.  
  
The days were incredibly long at that time of the year, as the summer solstice approached, and the mountains stretching across the northwestern horizon were still backlit with a last glimmer of sunset radiance as he crossed the state line and left Wyoming behind. He had traveled only a couple of miles beyond that point, moving into the first deep gloom of full evening, when a flurry of movement erupted out of a thick stand of underbrush beside the highway. He watched in horror as twin blurs of red-brown and cream leapt across the road in front of him, close enough to allow him to count the points on the buck's antlers. He slammed on his brakes, and the truck fish-tailed sharply, sending the rear of the horse-trailer skidding sideways across the highway.  
  
When it was over, and all was still again, Ennis could only gasp for breath and murmur a silent prayer that there had been no oncoming traffic to compound the problem. He watched in silence as the two deer, neither apparently overly alarmed by their near miss, bounded away down a steep incline that descended to the banks of a narrow river that roughly paralleled the highway's path. He, on the other hand, decided quickly that he needed to pull off on the shoulder of the road to give his heart time to regain its natural rhythm.  
  
At the same time, a series of shrill whinnies rising from the double horse-trailer reminded him that he needed to check on his four-legged traveling companions.  
  
When he had managed to ease forward, realigning truck and trailer and making his way to a space a few yards down the road with a grassy verge on which to park, he climbed out of the truck's cab and hurried to the rear of the trailer, knowing exactly what he would see once he opened it up.  
  
Thunderbolt, his big chestnut, was relatively calm, indicating his unease by nothing more than an occasional switch of his tail. But Chamois, as expected, was trembling and snorting her displeasure, close to panic.  
  
"Just like yer mama," Ennis murmured as he worked his way inside and reached out to stroke her withers, his hands firm and sure, offering exactly the right amount of reassurance. She nickered softly, instantly relaxing under his touch, and lifted her head to encourage him to caress the downy softness of her throatlatch and chest. He paused for a moment, burying his face against the side of her neck, and tried not to follow the direction of his thoughts, spiraling down once more into the velvet strokes of memory.  
  
It was silliness, and he knew it. Jack Twist had never ridden this horse; had never sat astride her as the sun beamed down upon him, striking dark auburn glints in his hair and making him squint against its brightness, his lips curling in that half-smile that always made Ennis' breath catch in his throat. This was not Jack's horse; had never been Jack's horse, except that, in a way, she was. She was a foal of the last horse Jack had ridden - a virtual replica of that lovely sorrel, who had always been feisty and easily startled, but who had loved Jack Twist with her whole heart, even at those ornery moments when she'd tried to toss him on his ass. And when Gypsy had stumbled into a prairie-dog hole and broken her foreleg, Ennis had cried when he had to put her down, almost as much as he'd cried when he'd learned that Jack was forever lost to him. Losing the filly had felt like losing another link to the most precious moments of his life.  
  
Then he had argued with himself that he should sell Chamois, who had been just a yearling at the time; it wasn't, he knew, as if he'd ever have need for another spirited sorrel filly to offer herself up as a candidate for the love of Jack Twist. Yet, he had never followed through on the thought, never allowed himself to think about it again, or to examine his reasons for not doing so. He had raised her, trained her and loved her, on Jack's behalf. He knew he wasn't an acceptable substitute for the man who would have stolen her heart, but he'd done the best he could.  
  
He had never seen her, never touched her, never ridden her. Yet, for all that, this was Jack's horse, and Ennis would keep her close and sheltered and pampered until he was forced to let her go.  
  
In the humid warmth of the horse trailer, he buried his face against the filly's silver mane and wept, swept up once more in memory. He saw Jack's face before him, saw the voluptuous curve of that sweet mouth, and could not resist delving deeper into recollection, claiming a taste - and then another. He had always considered it strange that he could hunger so for a man's kiss, when he'd never been particularly interested in kisses from a woman - any woman. But Jack's mouth - the softness of his lower lip, the honeyed sweetness of his taste, the sensual sound of his sighs as he'd opened up to Ennis' exploring tongue - that mouth had been addictive, like no other he'd ever kissed.  
  
He straightened abruptly, ashamed of the easy candor of that thought.  
  
_"He turned me around. Gave me my life back - again."_  
  
Ennis covered his face with his hands and scrubbed at his eyes. Brokeback was behind him; _Jack_ was behind him. He had to stop letting these echoes rise in his mind. He had to turn himself around and face tomorrow.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
It was just after eleven when Ennis arrived at the ranch, and pulled up at the main stable. All was quiet at that hour, and he exited the F150 wearily, prepared to unload the horses and bed them down for the night. Thus, he was surprised when a slender figure stepped out of the shadows within the main stable's big double doors and came forward to take the lead ropes from his hand.  
  
"What 'r you doin' out here?" asked Ennis, noting that Ronnie appeared to be avoiding meeting his eyes.  
  
"Mel's horse strained a fetlock yesterday," answered the boy curtly. "Just puttin' on some fresh ointment, and rewrappin' it."  
  
Ennis nodded. "Ya want me t' take a look at it?"  
  
"No need." The response was a hair too quick and a note too sharp. "Jerry checked it out earlier."  
  
Again, Ennis nodded. "OK. Ya don't have t' wait up then. I'll take care a . . ."  
  
A thin face, dark smudges glaringly obvious under troubled eyes, looked up sharply. "No. You need t' go on inside. I'll see to the horses."  
  
"Ronnie, I don't . . ."  
  
But the boy obviously didn't want to hear any argument. "You leavin' us, Ennis?"  
  
Ennis went cold and still, surprised by the depth of the pang that shot through him. "What makes you think that?"  
  
"I don't know what t' think," came the slow response, "but I can tell that's what _he's_ thinkin'."  
  
Ennis sighed. "Wha'd he tell you?"  
  
The young man laughed, but there was no warmth in the sound. "That's just it, ain't it? He hasn't told me anything - or anybody else either. He just walks around, lookin' like he can't quite remember what he's supposed t' be doin'. Like he's jus' lost." He started to walk away, leading the horses behind him. Then he stopped, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Ain't never seen 'im like that."  
  
"I'm sorry, Ronnie," Ennis said softly. "I hope ya know I never meant t' hurt 'im. There's jus' . . . Sometimes, there's things that a man's gotta do, even if it's hard fer some folks t' swallow."  
  
Ronnie nodded. "Ya know, I was never sure how I felt about you and Daddy, I mean. Truth t' tell, I'm still not sure, sometimes." He paused, and there was a distinct tremor in his voice when he continued. "I don't remember my Mama, of course, but Mel's always told me about how much she loved him. And how he loved her too. He really did, but Mel told me that she always knew, even as a tiny kid, that there was somethin' missin' . . . somethin' that didn't seem quite right. He was real good t' Mama. Did his best t' take care a her and see that she was happy. But there was always somethin' empty, inside him. She never figgered out what it was, not until after I came along and Mama was gone. After a while, I think he jus' got tired a hidin' who he really was. It took a while fer us - me and Mel - t' put it all together, and I tell ya what, Ennis. It was hard as hell t' accept it. I mean, this is fuckin' Montana, fer God's sake; not San Francisco with its free love and its flower children an' shit like that. Things like this - they're just not s'posed a happen in Montana, ya know?"  
  
Ennis' hooded eyes were full of deep shadows of old pain. "Yeah. I know."  
  
Ronnie turned then, and looked directly into Ennis' face. "But we learned t' live with it, Ennis. Cause we didn't have a choice; cause we love our daddy; but, most of all, cause we saw somethin' in him that we'd never seen before. Fer the first time in our memory - maybe the first time in his life - Daddy was happy. Really happy - not jus' settlin' for whatever little comfort life gave 'im. And it was you that gave 'im that. I admit that it was easier fer Mel than fer me." He offered up a small rueful smile. "She fancies herself as this sophisticated, big city liberal, ya know. But me - I'm still jus' this little backwoods Montana hick. And I still git sick t' m' stomach sometimes when I think about you an' Daddy together. But I learned t' handle it; I learned jus' t' avoid thinkin' about that. An' I let myself get t' know you, and found out that you wasn't nothin' like what I expected a . . ."  
  
"Queer?" Ennis supplied the word and surprised himself by speaking it without bitterness or anger.  
  
Ronnie sighed and nodded. "Queer t' be. But now . . ."  
  
"Now," Ennis interrupted, "y'er thinkin' it was a mistake t' trust me, an' t' let me be a part a yer family."  
  
The boy was thoughtful for a moment. "Maybe. I don't want a b'lieve that, but . . ." He paused and searched for the right words. "How much worse is it," he continued finally, "t' have somethin' ya never dreamed ya'd have, and lose it, than t' never have it in the first place?"  
  
Ennis drew a sharp breath, and felt something flex within him, like ground glass scouring his heart. He took his time formulating a response. "Y'er too young t' know jus' how true that is. And even worse is when ya don't even know what ya had til it's gone and ya cain't never git it back."  
  
The boy nodded, eyes downcast and suspiciously glossy. "Y'er not talkin' about Daddy now. Are ya?"  
  
"Yer daddy's a part of it, sure 'nough," Ennis replied. "As fer what comes next, reckon that's a decision that we gotta make together - him an' me."  
  
"So," Ronnie mused, drawing out the word, "y'er sayin' it's no business a mine?"  
  
"Naw, ain't sayin' that at all," Ennis said quickly. "He's yer daddy, and ya got a right t' be worried, an' t' have a say in what happens. But me an' him gotta work this out first. Okay?"  
  
"Okay." There was little enthusiasm in the response, but a lot of resignation. "But jus' so ya know . . . I reckon plenty a folks would call this one fucked-up family. An' I reckon that I even agree with 'em, sometimes. But it don't really feel all that strange t' me no more, an' I - well, I - I reckon I've got used t' how things are, an' I'm hopin' it ain't all jus' fallin' apart. Fer Daddy's sake, and fer me an' Mel - an' fer you too. I know ya prob'ly thought I hated ya, back when you an' Daddy first hooked up. An' it's fair t' say that you were right. At least a little bit. But . . ." A deep, ragged breath seemed to give him courage to finish what he had to say. "Jus' sos ya know, I don' hate ya any more."  
  
And the ground glass dug a little deeper as Ennis felt a telltale stinging in his eyes.  
  
"Is he still up?" asked Ennis finally, nodding toward the house.  
  
Ronnie's smile was bleak. "Don't think he's slept since ya left. Not too sober, though, but ya prob'ly expected that."  
  
"Yeah," Ennis answered in a resigned whisper. "I prob'ly did."  
  
"Go fix it, Ennis." The boy's words were softly spoken, but compelling nonetheless. "Please. Go make this right, before it's too late fer both a you."  
  
Ennis sighed, and started to turn away, but, at the last moment, he reached out and laid a gentle hand against Chamois' forelock as she was being lead away, just one quick stroke.  
  
For luck, or for courage maybe. Or to silence the sad, tender voice still whispering in his mind, like a pale drift of summer wind stroking bare skin.  
  
Even he didn't know for sure.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
After retrieving a flat, rectangular package from his truck, he made his way toward the house. He was only half way there when he felt a warning spasm low down in his back, and was forced to pause for a while, and bend forward, bracing his hands against his knees. It was not a particularly comfortable position, but it did prevent him from landing in an undignified sprawl, face-first in the rough gravel of the footpath.  
  
To his surprise, his back had hardly troubled him at all during his visit to the mountain, except for the slow, grinding ache that he lived with every day. It was a respite for which he was extremely grateful, as tackling the rigorous horseback ride to climb Brokeback would have been virtually impossible had his condition deteriorated to its worst level. Luckily, that had not happened. The compressed discs in his spine were simply a fact of life that he had chosen to live with, rather than seek surgical correction, much to the displeasure of his partner. Mike had engaged in an intense campaign to convince him to allow the orthopedic specialists to correct the problem, but no amount of persuasion or coercion had been enough to change Ennis' fundamental distrust of the surgeons' enthusiasm for wielding the knife.  
  
Mostly, he was able to endure it, resorting to the use of a cane when it was at its worst, with the additional comfort of a hefty slug of whiskey, taken in lieu of the painkilling drugs the doctors urged him to take to deaden the discomfort when his determined stoicism was unequal to the task. Once in a while, he wondered how it would feel to be pain-free again, to regain the suppleness and strength he had enjoyed in his youth, but every time he allowed himself to ponder that possibility, something inside him whispered that he was as he was meant to be - that his youth was gone for good, never to be regained. He had never bothered to question that voice or that conclusion. Like so many other things in his life, it was simply something that he had to stand, lacking the will or the ability to fix it.  
  
It was less than two hundred yards from the stableyard to the rear entrance of the house, but it seemed suddenly much farther. By the time he reached the small service porch and pushed inside, Ennis felt as if he'd run a marathon.  
  
When he realized that he was not alone as he stepped into the kitchen, he could not quite suppress a weary sigh as he wondered if this interminable night would ever end or just dwindle away into forever.  
  
"Miss Cora," he said softly, as he tucked the package he was carrying into a space behind the kitchen door before turning to face the slender figure poised at the entrance to the walk-in pantry. Her arms were clasped tight around a half-dozen pint-sized Mason jars, filled to the brim with a dark, jewel-toned substance, and a strand of silver-frosted hair had worked its way free of the braid she wore pinned to the crown of her head. "It's mighty late t' be cannin' . . . whatever that is."  
  
"Blackberry jam," she answered. "Blackberries don't wait. Like everything else, it's all a matter of timin'."  
  
Ennis nodded, deciding to ignore the subtle underlying meaning and concentrate on the prosaic primary message. "Mmmm. I do love me some blackberry jam."  
  
She went very still, before turning to set the jars on a tall shelf. "I know. You and Ronnie. Got thirty-two pints in all. Enough to last the both of you through the year, I think, providin' you're gonna be around to enjoy it."  
  
He moved to the sink and rinsed the dust from his hands, keeping his eyes downcast and his voice non-committal. "So y'er thinkin' that I got somethin' else in mind?"  
  
She came back into the brightness of the kitchen light, and regarded him steadily as she wiped her hands on a stained and faded apron. "I don't know what I think, Mr. Ennis. But it's not hard t' figure out what _he_ thinks."  
  
Ennis turned then and met her eyes squarely. "Didn't ask what he thinks. Reckon he can speak fer himself. Asked what you think."  
  
After a moment, she gave a soft shrug. "I don't think it's up to anyone but you and him to decide what comes next. But maybe you need to realize something, before you get all caught up in snarlin' at each other."  
  
His smile was faint and wistful. "Ya reckon it'll come t' that?"  
  
She allowed herself a soft snort. "One way or another. But you need to understand what it is that he's cringin' away from, what's got him so scared."  
  
"He don't trust me," Ennis sighed. He closed his eyes, and felt an overwhelming weight of darkness pressing in on him, a dread so thick and cloying that it threatened to stop his breath in his throat.  
  
Cora's snort was sharper this time. "You think he's reactin' like this because he's jealous of what you feel for the one you loved first."  
  
Ennis nodded. "Yeah, I guess."  
  
Slowly, sadly, she shook her head. "Think harder, Ennis. Look at the reasons behind his feelin's, and you might see something you don't expect."  
  
"Cora, you can speak plainer than that. What d' you . . ."  
  
"No," she interrupted firmly. "It's not up to me to explain it to you. If you two can't find a way to the truth, to speak what's in your hearts, well . . . maybe it just wasn't meant to be."  
  
"You b'lieve that?"  
  
She took a deep breath. "What I believe doesn't count for much. It's what the two of you believe that matters. And it's past time for you to figure it out, before it's too late for any chance of savin' what you've built together. He's on the front porch, and I wouldn't expect a real warm welcome. He's been workin' on a fifth of Jack Daniels since supper."  
  
Ennis nodded, and started to turn away.  
  
"One more thing," she called after him, and then waited for him to look back to meet her eyes. Then she found it almost impossible to avoid flinching away from traces of despair in his expression. "You need to be sure that you hear what he's sayin', and vice versa. No doubt that he's afraid of what might lie ahead for both of you, but it might not be exactly what you think it is that he fears. If you're talkin' apples and he's talkin' blackberries, you might never even come close to understandin' each other."  
  
But Ennis only looked more confused than before. "I don't know what ya mean."  
  
She sighed. "I know. Just do yourself one favor; above all, remember that he loves you, like he's never loved anyone else before, and that includes my dear sweet Ramona, God rest her soul. He's a good man, Ennis, and he gave her the best life he knew how to give her. But the simple truth is that, before you came along, he lived his whole life without ever darin' to hope that he'd find what he really wanted most, and then, when he did find you, it took him a long time to be able to believe that it was real, that it wasn't just a pipedream that would never come true. And sometimes, he still doesn't believe it. If you keep that in mind, you might be able to hear what he's really tryin' to say and understand what he's really afraid of."  
  
"I don't want a hurt 'im, Miss Cora," he said softly, his eyes distant and shadowed. "But I can't pretend I didn't have no life before him and me got together. It ain't right t' forget where I come from, an' the years I lived before, or the person that made me what I am."  
  
She nodded. "It's all a matter of balance, I guess. You can't live in the past, for sure, but it's part of who you are so you can't just throw it away either. You need to find the middle ground where you can honor what was and protect what is, for both of you."  
  
Ennis managed a shaky smile. "Y'er a smart woman, Miss Cora. Don't reckon either one a us deserves ya, but I'm grateful that ya care enough t' try t' help us."  
  
She simply nodded, and went back to her task of putting away the still warm jars of sweet preserves. "If you're hungry," she said, resuming her customary business-like demeanor, "there's leftovers in the fridge - chicken and dumplin's and candied yams and lemon pie."  
  
"Y'er too good t' us," he remarked before heading out to face whatever music might be awaiting him.  
  
"Sure as hell right about that," muttered Cora, before pausing to offer up a silent and heartfelt prayer, knowing that it was the only thing left for her to do. Her eyes drifted to the slim package that stood upright by the kitchen door, and she frowned. It was remarkably similar in size and shape to another item that Ennis had brought to the house just a few days earlier - an item that now hung in its own niche above the fireplace in the den, staring out at the world with eyes suitable for drowning in and looking remarkably perfect for that spot. Something in her mind insisted that it should have clashed with everything else in that room, but, somehow, it didn't. Somehow, it belonged there, in that place, in this house.  
  
But only so long as _he_ belonged there. If he went, it would go with him.  
  
It was time to rest, to put this long day behind her and hope for a better tomorrow.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
A low rumble of thunder rolled over the valley while flickers of lightening danced from peak to peak across the jagged western horizon, as Ennis emerged from the house and stood for a moment, taking a deep breath and trying to calm his thoughts. He paused to light a cigarette, listening as the soft strains of a country music song - Willie Nelson, he was pretty sure, asking somber questions and demanding to know if 'things were going backward' and if 'they were playing our song' - rose from the deep shadows of the corner, beyond the sturdy bulk of the porch swing.  
  
Despite the fact that the broad contours of the valley were awash with pale moonlight, that end of the porch was shielded from any stray veins of radiance by a thick, luxurious thatch of flowering clematis clinging to a framework of white wrought iron panels that stretched from the top of the porch railing to the support brace of the beaded ceiling. The thriving vine was a testament to Cora's uncanny ability to coax lush growth from almost any variety of plant species, in an environment that could best be described as harsh and unpredictable. She had informed them, when she first planted it, that it was called Niobe, a name that appealed to her native American roots, and its flowers - as bold and crimson as fresh blood - would appear shockingly vibrant in the bright sunlight of morning, but at this hour of the night, they were star-shaped splashes of obsidian, frosted with diamond fragments of dew.  
  
Against that backdrop, the figure sprawled in a redwood lounge chair was no more than a rough silhouette, illuminated only by the fiery tip of a cigarette dangling from limp fingers.  
  
The silence swelled and distorted into something that was almost a sound - thick and ominous and compelling, as Ennis turned to peer into the darkness. His eyes - never his keenest sense organs - told him little, but his mind needed no stimulus to visualize the man stretched out before him.  
  
Hair the rich shade of new amber, threaded with sun-bleached strands of white-gold, worn slightly too long, curving lush behind the ears and drooping over the forehead in a way that guaranteed the periodic sweep of a broad hand to push it back from wide, deep-set eyes, blue as an alpine lake, and heavily lashed. Though the color of those eyes had initially triggered memories of Jack in Ennis' mind, he had quickly realized that the blueness was the only physical characteristic that the two men shared. Where Jack's coloring had been vivid, with jet black hair and a swarthy complexion framing sensual features, all defined perfectly by a muscular, sculpted body, Mike was fair of hair and skin, with aquiline features accented by a spray of freckles across high cheekbones, all in keeping with a lean, rangy build.  
  
Ennis closed his eyes, remembering significant moments from the last six years of his life, remembering how many times he'd been stricken by the realization that the man who loved him was a creature of extraordinary grace and beauty, equaled by . . .  
  
He took a deep shaky breath, angrily slamming closed the door which had just sprung open in his mind. _Equaled by no one.  
  
There! That was more like it._  
  
But the voice that rose from the shadow of the clematis vine was _not_ beautiful. In fact, it was hoarse and rough and barely even human, as far from dulcet as it was possible for a voice to be.  
  
"Well, look what the wind blew in." There was the rustle of clothing as Mike shifted his position, attempting - without success - to sit up straighter. "The prodigal returns."  
  
This was followed by the unmistakable glugging sound of a bottle being upended and gulped.  
  
"Got any a that t' spare?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
Ennis stepped closer. "Is that because ya don't want a share, or jus' that ya don't want a share with me?"  
  
"Ain't sure," said Mike in a soft voice, "but don't reckon it matters anyway, cause it's empty."  
  
Ennis nodded, and turned back toward the door.  
  
"Hey, wait a minute. Where ya goin'?"  
  
"T'git another bottle," Ennis answered gruffly. "Reckon there's plenty that needs sayin' between us, and I'm way too sober t' deal with somebody as drunk as you."  
  
For a minute, Mike was silent, not even breathing. "Makes sense," he said finally, succeeding at last in sitting up and swinging his sock-clad feet to the floor. A stray beam of light fell across his chest - a reflection from the soft nightlight in the entryway - revealing one of the dark plaid western shirts that he favored, this one a blend of cobalt and emerald green, with black piping. As was his wont, he had rolled up the sleeves, revealing forearms deeply tanned by many hours spent in the sun; it was one of his pet peeves in life that his arms tanned so much more easily than his face, leaving his much-despised freckles unaffected by the harshness of the sun, or anything else.  
  
Ennis, on the other hand, was extraordinarily fond of those freckles.  
  
Impulsively, he spun and knelt beside Mike's chair and grabbed him roughly, to give him the kind of kiss that lovers exchange when they've been separated for a long time, over a long distance - deep and thorough and breathtaking. For his part, Mike was so stunned and taken aback that he did not respond at all for a few seconds; then he braced his hands against Ennis' chest and pushed, hard enough to make Ennis reel away and struggle to keep his balance.  
  
"What the fuck?" Ennis snapped, leaping to his feet.  
  
"Shouldn't I be the one askin' that?" Mike demanded. "Ya come back here after yer little trip down memory lane, and walk in like ever'thing's jus' peachy, and I'm s'posed t' jus' act like nothin's wrong? Well, fuck that, Ennis, cause somethin' _is_ wrong. An' I don't even know if there's a way t' make it right."  
  
Ennis turned and strode into the house, veering into the den to retrieve a full bottle of whiskey from the bar - very expensive single malt whiskey, the kind he seldom allowed himself. He paused just long enough to break the seal, and take a hefty swig, welcoming the slow burn that spread through his body, before plodding back to the porch, hesitating at the door to square his shoulders and take a deep breath. This, he figured, was not going to be fun or easy, but it could not be avoided, even though a part of him - a huge part that, in earlier years, would have prevailed - wanted to turn and run and find a place to hide away. For most of his life, he had allowed himself to be ruled by that impulse, that need to avoid confrontation and controversy, to curl up in a fetal position to protect himself from the harsh judgments of a vicious world.  
  
Until it had cost him the one thing he could not bear to lose.  
  
No more.  
  
He deliberately did not look toward Mike as he crossed the porch and settled himself on the steps leading down to the front walkway, bracing his back against a support column. Then he sat for a while, rolling the whisky bottle from palm to palm, trying to decide how to begin.  
  
At last, he realized that there was no easy way - no surefire method for offering up the truth about the past while preserving the alternative truths of the present.  
  
There was only one truth, and it was time to speak it.  
  
"I never told ya very much," he began softly, "about Jack."  
  
From the shadows, came the sound of a broken breath, almost a gasp of pain. "An' I never asked."  
  
"I know. An' I guess it's fair t' say I was grateful that ya didn't. But here's the trouble with that. You weren't the only one I never told. The truth is that I never talked t' nobody about 'im. I hardly ever even let myself speak 'is name, 'cause I was afraid somebody would hear somethin' in my voice, and figger out . . ."  
  
"That you were fuckin' him?"  
  
Ennis winced, stung both by the ugliness of the word and the harshness of the truth of it.  
  
"Yeah. That I was fuckin' him. An' I know that y'er usin' that word t' make it sound cheaper and uglier than it was, but that's the right word. Because it's the only way I ever let myself look at it. I fucked Jack. Fer Goddamn near twenty years, I fucked 'im ever' chance I got." He paused to light a cigarette, as new lightening forked the sky and bathed his profile in eerie brilliance. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with regret. "Even when I saw that it was killin' him, I never let myself think of it as anything else, 'cause as long as I could tell myself that it was jus' fuckin' - that it didn't mean nothin' but that - then I could go on believin' that it wasn't _me._ That I wasn't queer. That it was jus' Jack." His voice broke then, and settled to a whisper. "That it was all his fault."  
  
For a while, there was heavy silence, unbroken until Mike flipped open his old Zippo to light his Marlboro. "So," he said finally, "how much did you hate 'im for that?"  
  
Ennis sighed. "Not near as much as I hated myself. I _knew_ it was killing 'im. Sometimes, he'd say somethin' about how much he missed me or how lonely he'd get when we were apart, and I cain't tell ya how much it hurt t' just sit there an' say nothin', t' let 'im think that I didn't care enough t' answer. But I couldn't. I couldn't admit it - couldn't stand t' face th' truth. You know th' last thing I said t' him? The last thing I ever said t' him? That it was his fault that my life was all fucked up, that I was a failure an' a nobody 'cause a him. An' I drove away and left him there, believin' that he ruined my life."  
  
"A few weeks after that, he was dead, and I didn't even find out about it until months later. I was so Goddamn careful t' keep him out a my life that nobody knew t' let me know when he got killed. Can you understand how it felt - t' find out that he'd been dead and gone for months while I jus' went on livin' my miserable life, spendin' every day waitin'? Waitin' fer 'im t' make me feel alive again, t' touch 'im an' hold 'im an' _feel_ like there was a reason t' wake up in the mornin'. The day I found out, the world jus' . . . stopped. Everything stopped. There was nothin' left fer me, but hopeless days and dark nights - and whiskey. Lots a whiskey, t' keep me thinkin' about all I'd lost, and everything I'd thrown away, all because I couldn't face the truth. He would a moved mountains fer me, taken on th' whole Goddamned world fer me, if I'd just been willin' t' let 'im, if I'd ever once had the guts to speak th' truth - that I loved Jack Twist, that he was everything to me. But I didn't. And he died alone, an' t' this day, I don't know if he ever knew th' truth of how I felt about 'im.  
  
"He died, an' I still couldn't find it in m' heart t' let the world see me mourn fer 'im. It was like what we had - what he was t' me - was somethin' t' be ashamed of. An' I never did nothin' about it. Not one Goddamned thing, Mike. He would a stood up and faced down the whole fuckin' world fer me, and I couldn't even stand t' let anybody see me grieve for 'im. He gave me everything he had t' give, and I let 'im die alone."  
  
He took another deep pull from the whiskey bottle and wondered if he should say more, before realizing that nothing else would really matter; he had said it all.  
  
When Mike rose abruptly and came forward to settle beside him, close enough so that their shoulders were touching, he felt a sweet moment of gratitude for the reassurance offered by the solid physical presence.  
  
"No," Mike said softly, "you didn't."  
  
Ennis lit another cigarette and took a deep drag. "Whatta ya mean?"  
  
"I mean," Mike said slowly, "that ya didn't let 'im die alone. 'Cause he didn't."  
  
"Didn't what?"  
  
"Didn't die alone."  
  
Time for another long pull at the whiskey bottle, before passing it over to his partner. "Yeah, he did, Mike. Unless y'er countin' the motherfuckers that beat 'im t' death, ain't no way t' deny that. He . . ."  
  
"You died with 'im."  
  
Ennis stared into bluer-than-blue eyes, thickly shadowed. "What the fuck are you talkin' about?"  
  
Mike was slow to respond, obviously choosing his words with care, and his answer was oblique, at best. "Tell me somethin', Ennis. Why do you think I hate Jack?"  
  
Now it was Ennis' turn to be slow to answer. After a few silent moments, he shrugged. "Jealousy, I guess. 'Cause he was first. 'Cause I cain't let go a my feelin's fer 'im."  
  
Mike nodded. "True enough, I reckon. I'd be lyin' if I said that I didn't sometimes wish you'd never loved anybody but me. Or that I never wondered if you'd ever love me the way you loved 'im. That's all a part a human nature, I think - wonderin' if the one that come before you was better, if he was loved more, if y'er ever gonna measure up t' what he was."  
  
"Mike, I . . ."  
  
"That's not what I hate about Jack. I'm never gonna be him, and I know that."  
  
"An' he's never gonna be you," replied Ennis, reaching out to grasp his partner's hand. "Ya think I 'm only interested in different versions a the same man? That I wanted a substitute fer Jack when I found you."  
  
Mike offered up a rueful smile. "Maybe. A little bit. And I could live with that. I could even live with the idea that y'er never gonna love me quite like you loved him. We all love different people in different ways. I expect that's how it's s'posed a be."  
  
Ennis nodded. "Sounds right. But, if that's so, why do ya . . ."  
  
"I hate Jack," Mike said quickly, "because a what he did to you, what you did to yerself, because a him."  
  
"Meanin'?"  
  
"Meanin' that Jack didn't die alone when he bled out on the side a that Texas highway. He took you with 'im. An' the fact that it's not what he meant t' do - not what he would a wanted fer you - don't change the truth of it. He died, Ennis, and so did you. The only difference between ya was that you kept walkin' around. Dead on yer feet, but still dead."  
  
Ennis looked out toward the distant horizon, his eyes bleak and empty. "That ain't how it was."  
  
"No?" Mike turned and laid his hands on Ennis' shoulders. "You don't even know it, do ya? Even now, after all this time, ya still don't see it. But I do, Ennis. An' I gotta tell ya that I never wanted a see it. I spent years refusin' t' believe it, but a man can only fool himself fer so long."  
  
"I don't know what y'er talkin' about."  
  
"I know." Mike's voice was no more than a whisper as he turned away and dropped his gaze to his clinched fingers. "When I met ya, I cain't even begin t' tell ya what I felt the first time I saw ya. It didn't take long t' see that you were hurt, that you'd gone through somethin' that nearly destroyed ya. But I also saw somethin' else. I saw the man that you used a be - the man I thought ya could be again. The man that I'd spent my whole life lookin' for." He paused for a moment, pondering how to continue. "I think I was lost from that first second when I looked up and saw ya standin' there. An' I let myself b'lieve that I could save you, that I could pull you back out of your pain and misery, and make you whole again."  
  
"Mike, you did more . . ."  
  
But Mike was shaking his head. "You weren't just wounded, Ennis. You were dead - just an empty shell of a man - and you never came back from it. The only thing that came back was a ghost of the man ya used a be. Nothin' I did seemed t' make any difference, an' I couldn't figger it out, couldn't understand where I went wrong. Then, would you believe it, it was Alma that made me see the truth."  
  
"Alma?" Ennis echoed, his confusion growing. "What on earth . . ."  
  
"Three years ago, when I drove Jenny back to Riverton after she spent her Easter vacation with us. Remember that?"  
  
Ennis nodded. "You had a go to Cheyenne on business, so it was on yer way. Sort a."  
  
"And I had th' pleasure of makin' the acquaintance of yer ex. We had a little chat."  
  
"You never told me that."  
  
Mike's smile was bittersweet. "That woman carries around a lot a anger, Ennis. Under the circumstances, reckon we cain't blame her too much, but that mama cat's got herself a mean set of claws."  
  
Ennis remembered some of his own confrontations with Alma and her sharp tongue, and could not argue the point. "What'd she say?"  
  
"I was jus' tryin' a make polite conversation," Mike replied, "before makin' my get-away, an', when she asked how you were doin', I said somethin' about how you was doin' fine an' gettin' along, like always."  
  
Ennis sighed, remembering all the times Alma had made her cutting little comments about his foul temper and inability to control it. "Bet that went over well."  
  
"Put it this way," Mike went on. "If looks could kill, I'd a been a dead man right there in her livin' room. Then she goes into this bitch fit, gettin' louder with ever word, rantin' about how bad yer temper was, and how mean you'd get sometimes, spoutin' a long list of fistfights, wrestlin' matches, barroom brawls . . . you name it. An' then, fer the frostin' on the cake, she proceeded t' tell me about the only time she was ever scared a you. When she told you that she knew about you an' Jack. She said that she thought fer sure, you were really gonna hurt her that night, that she'd never seen a man so out a control or filled with rage."  
  
He sighed. "Needless t' say, I got the hell out a there, as fast as my feet would carry me, and told myself that she was just a crazy woman, spoutin' a bunch of ugly shit 'cause ya done her wrong. But later, after my heart stopped tryin' a jump out a my chest, I got to thinkin' about everything she said. An' that's when it hit me. I thought back over all th' time we'd been together, tryin' a remember times when you'd lost yer temper. Or even just got real excited about somethin'. An' ya know what, Ennis? I couldn't remember any times like that. Not a single one. An' that's when I saw the truth, when I understood that the man you were before had a fire inside 'im, a burnin' passion fer livin'. You burned fer Jack Twist, and that fire went out the day he died."  
  
"Aw, come on, Mike," Ennis said abruptly. "How can you say that? I get plenty excited, about lots a things."  
  
"No, Ennis." Mike's voice was heavy with dread. "Ya don't. Except maybe in bed, once in a while. When I came back from that trip, I tried t' fergit about it, tried t' stop thinkin' about what I knew, but the things she'd said kept weighin' on my mind. So I started tryin' a provoke ya, t' git you stirred up about things. Or t' push ya to do things that I figured would piss you off. Things that I knew you really wouldn't want a do. It got to where I was obsessed with bringin' that fire back t' life. I tried everythin' I could think of t' git ya riled up. But nothin' worked. You jus' went along with everything. Even when I arranged fer us t' have that fuckin' 'commitment ceremony'. Goddamn, but I almost pissed myself laughin' over that one; I was sure that I'd finally found somethin' that would push you over the edge. Somethin' that'd wake you up. But you jus' gave me that patient little smile - the one that always makes me feel like such a piss-ant - and went along with whatever you thought I wanted. Truth is that the only time, in all these years, that I ever saw you really lose your temper an' show one tiny little spark a that fire was over them two shithead ranch hands that Jerry had t' sack, for spoutin' off about faggots and what ought a be done with 'em, but it didn't take a rocket scientist t' figure out what you were thinkin' when ya threatened a kick their asses. That was all about Jack, just like every deep feeling, every strong emotion you have, is still all about Jack."  
  
"Mike," Ennis' voice was hoarse now - raw with emotions held in check. "I _do_ love ya. Ya gotta know that."  
  
"I know," Mike admitted, after a beat of silence, "that ya love me as much as you can love anyone. But I also know that it's the ghost of Ennis Del Mar that's sittin' here with me. It's the ghost that loves me; not the real man - the one with fire in 'is heart. The real man is gone, and all I got left is the ghost. An' I'm afraid that if ya keep on diggin' into yer memories of Jack, that the ghost is jus' gonna fade away. I spent my whole life waitin' fer ya, Ennis, and I'm scared t' death that y'er gonna disappear before my eyes. Sometimes, I'm so desperate t' make ya feel somethin' - really _feel_ somethin' - that it scares me. Do ya know what I almost did, after you drove away the other day? I went to yer office, lookin' fer them shirts."  
  
"Shirts?" Ennis echoed. "Why would ya . . ."  
  
"I ain't that Goddamn dumb, Ennis. Reckon it's true that there's no way I can know the story behind 'em, but it's pretty clear how much they mean t' you, and I'd have to be blind and stupid not to know who wore that blue shirt."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I wanted a burn 'em. To stuff 'em in a barrel, and pour kerosene on 'em, and watch 'em go up in smoke."  
  
Ennis' eyes were suddenly sharp and hard. "Ya did, huh?"  
  
"But I couldn't. You know that, a course. Where'd ya put 'em?"  
  
Ennis managed a small smile. "Where they're safe."  
  
Mike sighed. "I'm glad. I'd like t' think that I wouldn't a gone through with it, if I'd found 'em, but I cain't be sure."  
  
They were both silent for a time, smoking and drinking . . . and pondering.  
  
It was Mike who spoke first. "I cain't stand a see ya go back to what you were when we first met, Ennis. I know that I ain't never gonna have the man you used a be - the man you were for Jack. But I love the man you are, more than you could ever understand. Y'er everything I ever dreamed of - everything worth havin' - but I won't watch you die by inches, torturin' yerself over what you should a done fer Jack, an' I don't b'lieve Jack would want that either. So I reckon you got a choice t' make. If ya wanta jus' shut yerself down, t' pull away from ever feelin' anything an' wrap yerself in memories a Jack so nothin' else can touch ya, then we need a end this now. Cause I cain't watch ya do that."  
  
Once more, Ennis was silent for a while, eyes staring into the darkness but seeing nothing. "Glad ya couldn't burn th' shirts," he said finally. "Would a been bad if I had a kick yer ass."  
  
Mike huffed a soft laugh. "If it riled ya up enough, I'd a prob'ly enjoyed it."  
  
"Would you . . ." Ennis' breath seemed to catch in his throat, and he could not continue.  
  
"Would I what?"  
  
"Would you like t' hear th' story about those shirts?"  
  
Mike was suddenly very still, as he realized that neither of them was actually breathing, both recognizing that this was a crucial moment. "I would," he finally answered, "if you'd like t' tell me."  
  
Ennis turned then and looked deep into indigo blue eyes. "I was wrong t' try t' shut 'im out, Mike. _We_ were wrong, and I won't do it no more. An' I'm hopin' that you can deal with that, but it's yer choice."  
  
Mike drew a deep breath. "All I can say is that I'll try, Ennis. I cain't promise that I won't ever be jealous a him, but I can promise ya this. I will always love ya, even when I don't understand ya, even when I don't agree with ya, but I have to ask ya not t' push me away. Not t' climb back into yer shell, and turn yer back on the life we have here. I'm not Jack, and I won't try t' take his place. But I need ya to live here, in our home, with me. Not in the past; not in yer memories, an' not walkin' through life like y'er sleepwalkin'."  
  
Ennis rose quickly, pulling Mike up with him, and they clung together, each drawing strength from the other. "I hear ya, Bud," Ennis breathed, "an' I'll do everything I can t' show ya how I feel about you, about our life together. I do love ya, Mike, and I can promise ya that I'll go on lovin'ya fer the rest a my life. Ain't interested in nobody else. I can't explain whut makes me feel this way, but, sometimes, it seems t' me like we was s'posed t' find each other - t' save each other. An' there ain't no doubt that ya saved me, that ya pulled me back from a hell ya cain't even imagine, an' made me come alive again. But I won't pretend no more that I didn't have a life before. Jack is dead and gone, but he'll always live inside me. I hope y'er able t' live with that, and understand that he's not a threat t' you. He's jus' a part a me, and there's no gettin' around that."  
  
Their kiss was achingly gentle, exploratory - as if venturing into new territory.  
  
"Maybe," said Mike, when they came up for breath, "we ought a have a new commitment ceremony. Ya know, like t' renew our vows."  
  
Ennis' eyes narrowed. "Y'er really tryin' t' piss me off, ain't ya?"  
  
"Is it workin'?"  
  
"If I turn ya over my knee, and beat yer ass raw, will that convince ya?"  
  
Mike's grin was radiant. "Oh, Daddy, what big hands ya have!"  
  
"Shut the fuck up!" Ennis growled, diving in for another kiss.  
  
"Why don't you drag me upstairs and make me?"  
  
Ennis was pretty sure that was the best offer he'd had all day.  
  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
In the thick darkness that happens only in the final hours before daybreak, Ennis Del Mar left the warmth of the bed he shared with his lover, tugged on a pair of jeans, and made his way to the tiny balcony that overlooked the side yard where Cora had created a small rose garden. The moon had long since set, and dawn was not yet imminent, but the stars were brilliant enough to allow him to look out over the grounds and spot the bulk of the cattle clustered near the eastern corner of the main pasture. Sometime after midnight, a furious squall had swept across the valley, leaving the air behind it as clear as polished crystal and still carrying the fragrance of summer rain.  
  
Ennis took a deep breath and smiled when he realized that he still wore the distinctive scent of rough male sex - the scent of Mike - imprinted on his skin. Their lovemaking had been swift and intense, almost violent; as much a claiming as a joining.  
  
They had come together without words, without planning, and fallen into the form that had come to be most natural for them; Ennis had buried himself in Mike's heat and driven his lover to multiple orgasms before exploding in his own eruption. Afterwards, they had clung to each other, both aware of how narrowly they had avoided a disaster, but neither able to express it in words. In the end, the messages had been exchanged through the medium of tender touch and soft sighs and gentle kisses.  
  
They had weathered the storm. There would be others, of course, but they would face them as they came; there was no point in anticipating trouble.  
  
Ennis lit a cigarette and lifted his gaze to lose himself for a moment in the splendid panoply of the night sky. The stars seemed as close and as brilliant as they had when he had stared up at them from the flanks of the mountain, and, if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that he could hear the sigh of the wind as it wound its way through the tors and crags of the Big Horns.  
  
When a pale breath of air brushed his skin, he looked up - and wondered.  
  
"Jack?" he whispered. "Are ya there, Jack?"  
  
There was, of course, no answer, but, to his surprise, he didn't feel the least bit silly for speaking to a spirit that was probably just a figment of his imagination. Probably. But he was no longer quite so sure, had not been totally sure, since young Bobby had spoken of his impossible encounter with his father many years after Jack had been reduced to ashes.  
  
Ennis didn't know what he should believe, and the ideas that had come to him over the last few days were nebulous at best - barely formed and dimly seen - but persistent nonetheless. He had tried to dismiss them as fanciful notions, but they lingered, like tiny seeds planted in fertile soil, needing only time and tending to begin to grow.  
  
He was silent for a time, deep in thought. Then he spoke again, and even he was not sure if he was speaking to himself or to anyone else who might happen to be listening, or merely thinking out loud in an effort to clear his mind.  
  
"Guess it don't make much sense t' be thinkin' this way, but it seems t' me now, that this . . . all a this . . . come t' be 'cause somethin' made it happen." He looked up and fixed his gaze on a single star, the brightest in the sky glittering above the northern horizon. "I don' know what ya did, Jack, or even if ya did anything at all. But I don' know how this could a come about any other way. Somethin' touched me, an' opened me up, so I was able t' come t' this place. Somebody did this fer me, and I reckon y'er the only person that ever loved me that much."  
  
He waited for a time, feeling slightly foolish for wondering if some kind of answer might come to him. But it didn't, and he finally turned to go back into the house, back into the comfort of his bed.  
  
But he paused for just a moment longer, and gave voice to one final thought.  
  
"Love ya, Li'l Darlin' - now and always."  
  
The silence of the night remained unbroken as he turned away from sweet memories of the past, to return to the comforting warmth of his lover's arms.  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
Ennis had intended to make his get-away early in the day, driving north on Hwy. 93 well before midday and watching the main street of Challis, Idaho, disappear in his rearview mirror with the morning sun still sparking bright reflections from the snow-capped peaks that surrounded the little village, but Jenny had vetoed that plan with a well-executed pout and a few well-chosen pleading words. He had given in almost immediately, of course, conceding that it just wouldn't do to speed away and leave his baby girl teary-eyed and depressed, just as she was beginning to recover her strength following the birth of his brand new twin grandbabies. She had been through too much already, having endured all the normal rigors of pregnancy, compounded by the additional stresses of bearing twins and being confined to her bed for the last month of gestation, in an attempt to delay the onset of premature labor. Adding to her aggravation, her husband had taken it upon himself to invite her mother to come for an extended visit, for the purpose of looking after the household and the older children, Matthew and Lana. Alma, of course, had been pleased as punch to be asked; Jenny had been less than enthusiastic.  
  
It had all worked out in the end, but not without an abundance of traumatic moments. The babies, weighing in at just under four pounds apiece, had made their grand entrance into the world on the first day of the last month of the twentieth century, just two weeks shy of their official due date. Darla Eileen and Dylan Ennis had spent their first twenty-one days in the hospital's neo-natal intensive care unit, growing and getting stronger until they were ready for exposure to the outside world. They had come home just two days prior to Christmas, under the watchful eyes of doting parents and grandparents. Alma had been there to receive them, of course; her vigilance in caring for Jenny, both before and after birth, had more than earned her the right to be present for the big event, and no one cared to dispute that basic truth. Even Nathan's parents, after flying in from Colorado Springs, had seemed content to allow her to run the show and grab the spotlight.  
  
However, when Alma's husband, Monroe, arrived to spend Christmas day with the newly-expanded family, bringing his and Alma's young son, Allen, with him, both Jenny and Nathan insisted that it was time for Alma to return to her own home; she had already done enough - more than anyone could have expected her to do - and if there was some small trace of sardonic wit in her son-in-law's eyes as he assured her of the depth of his gratitude for her help, Alma chose to ignore it, just as she had learned to ignore how easily Jenny rolled her eyes in response to her mother's constant dispensation of advice on how babies should be raised and how husbands should be treated.  
  
Alma, Monroe, and Allen had departed at the crack of dawn the next day, leaving behind a spiral notebook filled with Alma's handwritten instructions for handling the newborns and running a household efficiently, and Ennis had arrived just at sunset the same day, eager to see for himself that his beloved daughter was well on her way to recovery, and to hold the newest members of his family in loving arms.  
  
Despite a few awkward moments - Nathan still had not managed to bury his homophobic tendencies completely, although he had succeeded in suppressing the urge to voice any negative comments that might occur to him - it had been a good week. Though the infants required lots of attention, Ennis and Nathan's parents had pitched in to help out, allowing Jenny to rest up and continue to regain her strength while Nathan was able to return to work. Though federal laws had been enacted by this time to grant new fathers the right to take maternity leave as needed, the fundamental truth was that his work as the primary structural engineer at the area's largest molybdenum mine was crucial to its successful operation, and his extended absence from his post created hardships for both labor and management. His parents registered their verbal disapproval of his decision to go back earlier than he'd originally planned, but Ennis reacted stoically. It was, after all, the mine and Nathan's employment there that had provided Jenny and the grandchildren with a fine house, a good living, and a promising future. He didn't go so far as to remark that he saw this arrangement as the natural order of things - where the man worked and provided and the woman stayed home and raised the kids - but that was exactly what he believed. He did not, of course, voice this opinion to Jenny, knowing that she would not react well to his old-fashioned philosophy.  
  
And throughout the duration of his visit, he fell more and more in love with his grandchildren - the solemn and exceptionally bright Matthew, the feisty and melodramatic Lana, and the tiny, warm, sweet-smelling bundles who slept so peacefully against his shoulders.  
  
It was a good time.  
  
On the day of his departure, Jenny had insisted that he stay to have lunch with the family, and he had agreed, reasoning that an early afternoon departure would still put him arriving home well before the midnight hour. Not as early as he'd hoped, but still early enough.  
  
During the past ten years, he and his partner had made a point of spending every New Year's Eve together, and he had no intention of breaking with that tradition. Mike would probably be annoyed with his tardiness, but it wouldn't take long to coax him out of his foul mood and into the initiation of the intimate celebration with which they always marked the first moments of the holiday. And this year, of course, would be different from every other - not only the beginning of a new year, and a new century, but a new millennium - an experience never to be repeated.  
  
He sighed as he remembered that there had been a time when he'd been convinced that he would never live to see the birth of the new millennium. Of course, there had also been a time when he'd believed that he'd be lucky to live another month - depending on how one chose to define "lucky".  
  
As the peaks of the Bitterroot Mountain Range spread out before him, he spotted the lush banks of the Salmon River up ahead, its edges still drifted with snow and frosted with a lacework of icy filigree, its center roiling with a swift, tumbling current flashing in the afternoon sunlight, and he realized that the opinion he'd formed when he'd driven in from Montana the previous week had been absolutely correct: this was one of the most beautiful places in the world, with vivid colors and textures emphasized by the sheer clarity of the air, a product of the mile-high elevation. He was looking forward to bringing Mike here in the spring. As lovely as it was in the dead of winter, it would be magnificent come April, and he would have the double pleasure of introducing his partner to the amazing spectacle of the beautiful setting and to the overwhelming loveliness of his new grandchildren, each as perfectly created as the other.  
  
By the end of his stay, he had decided that Challis was a place where he could be comfortable and happy. It had no big city pretensions, no cosmopolitan ambitions; it was content to be a small, western town - a product of its history and its natural setting - and its inhabitants seemed content with its down-to-earth simplicity.  
  
He smiled when he thought about the last meal he'd shared with Jenny's family and friends, as he'd prepared to depart. Nathan's parents had been there, of course, along with the eclectic group of 'friends' that had shown up at various times over the course of his visit. He had been surprised, initially, when a substantial percentage of those visitors turned out to be female, many of them being members of his own generation and all of them trying to put their best foot forward and charm the tall, lean stranger in their midst.  
  
There had been pretty, blonde, and buxom Susan Baines, secretary to Nathan's boss; short, slender, and graying Emma Eubanks, office manager for Jenny's obstetrician; plump and rosy-cheeked Valerie Milford, owner of the local diner; and several others who had drifted in whose names and physical attributes Ennis did not remember.  
  
Their faces were just a blur in his mind, although he remembered the various dishes they had brought for the meal quite clearly, indicating, according to his daughter, that he was more focused on his stomach than his heart, and he smiled to remember how Jenny had blushed and stammered through her apology, as he was making good his escape.  
  
"Sorry, Daddy," she whispered, hoping that he had not been offended by the obvious ploy. "They mean well," she continued, talking about her husband and his somewhat old-fashioned, matchmaking parents. "Really they do, but they just don't understand how you've made yer choices. They jus' think . . ."  
  
He smiled and finished the thought for her. "They jus' think that, if the right woman came along, I'd be cured. Right?"  
  
"Right," she admitted.  
  
Ennis smiled as he recalled that Nathan had at least had the grace to blush under his father-in-law's scrutiny as they said their farewells.  
  
Though he had finally come to terms with his own sexuality, after many decades of living in denial, he still understood that it was difficult for those who had no common experience to draw from. There had been a time, he acknowledged, when he would have been enraged by such an attitude, but time and experience had brought about a mellowing of his personality and fostered an ability to forgive such ignorance.  
  
He had finally reached the point, at the grand old age of 55, when it no longer mattered what anyone else thought of him or his living arrangements. His only regret was that it had taken him so long to achieve that wisdom.  
  
The sun was sinking behind him as he began his descent from the heights of the Continental Divide, following the recently plowed, curving road to lower elevations, as soft, fat snow flurries began to drift down from a fluffy, gray cotton sky. He maneuvered the truck around a sharp switchback turn, and spotted a graveled lay-by coming up, spread across the lip of a broad outlook. Impulsively, he decided to pull over and stretch his legs and spend a few minutes gazing down on the splendor of Montana laid out in patterns of light and shadow below him.  
  
The cold struck him like a physical blow as he climbed down from the truck's cab, leaning heavily on his cane to compensate for the icy footing, and he knew that he must not linger here, reveling in the exquisite silence of snowfall. He would only allow himself a moment, a bit of reflection, a quick step through old memories.  
  
The last day of the year, of the century, of the millennium. He was touched suddenly by a sense of melancholy, as he realized the fundamental truth of the hour. He was poised on the brink of moving into a new phase of his life, a new phase of the world, a new phase of time itself - a phase in which his grandchildren would grow to maturity as his children approached middle age, a phase in which he and Mike would slide into the sunset of their years, a phase in which the world might finally learn to accept people who made different choices, a phase in which . . .  
  
_Jack Twist never existed._  
  
The thought struck him with such force that he went to his knees, his gimpy leg folding awkwardly beneath him. In the intensity of the pain that thrust through him like a broad sword, he momentarily lost track of where he was, of who he was. All that remained of reality was when he was, caught up in the currents of the river of time and being swept away from the very thing that had given him life to begin with.  
  
_Why? Why hadn't that thought ever raised itself before?_  
  
He rubbed at his eyes with gloved fingers and drew a deep shuddering breath, and the world seemed to flex around him, sensation returning with a vengeance, assaulting his consciousness with a force that was almost physical. Bitter cold, the tangy scent of winter, the taste of snow on his tongue, the deep, grinding ache in his lower spine, and the terrible sense of emptiness, of existing in a place which no longer felt familiar.  
  
He struggled to his feet, using his cane for leverage, and moved closer to the barricade that marked the edge of the overlook, to stare out at the panorama spread out before him. The mountains, the valleys, the glitter of a winding river far below, the majesty of the peaks, soft-focused against the feather-brushed patina of the sky, the obsidian shadows of the evergreens, regal as aristocrats gowned in the pearlescent finery of frosted capes and diadems of ice crystals, all swathed in blankets of layered snowfall arranged in soft shades of blue ranging from palest azure to shadowed cerulean and glimpsed through a fine mist, dim and surrealistic as an impressionist painting. The air was so cold that it cut into his lungs, like fine needles abrading flesh.  
  
_Why?_  
  
The question echoed in his mind, like the deep gong of a bell.  
  
He had learned his lesson - and learned it well - years before; learned it as he'd ridden the trails of Brokeback Mountain, in the company of a young man who might have been Jack, if one happened to glance in his direction, but never could really be Jack. From that day, he had resisted any attempt to consign Jack's memory to the status of gone-and-forgotten. The portrait of his dark-haired, blue-eyed young lover - lost more than sixteen years ago now, and how could it possibly be that long? - still hung above the mantle in the den of the home he shared with his partner, beside two other portraits; one an artist's concept of himself, as painted from a photo Jack had taken many years before - the one which Bobby Twist had christened "Daddy's Golden Cowboy" - and one of Mike, standing by a corral gate, recoiling a lariat, also painted from a photograph, a candid snapshot which Melanie had taken on one of her holiday visits.  
  
It had not always been easy; Mike had not always been a willing participant in preserving Jack's place in their lives. There had been days - sometimes even weeks - when he had closed himself off and retreated into a deep stillness, and sometimes, Ennis would find him standing before the portrait of Jack, with a cold gleam in his eyes. Mike called it his time for introspection, for reconsidering his options; Ennis called it pouting. Yet, somehow, in the end, they always managed to step back from the shadows and seek out the sunlight of their existence, the solace of their devotion to each other. Jack's name - like Ramona's - was spoken often, and the family had grown accustomed to it, and if the sound of it occasionally generated sparks of anger or resentment, they were short-lived and no one seemed to notice.  
  
_So why didn't I ever think about what steppin' across this timeline would mean? Why didn't I know . . ._  
  
The answer - ridiculously simple - almost sent him back to his knees.  
  
_Because I didn't want a live in a time that he wasn't ever a part of._  
  
He leaned heavily against the barricade, and felt it tremble slightly under his weight. And thought, for a split second, about how easy it would be, to press just a little harder, to lean just a little farther out, to push off . . . into forever.  
  
_Jesus! What th' fuck am I thinkin'? Sound like a fuckin' poet 'r somethin'. Where th' fuck did that come from?_  
  
But he knew where it came from, even though it was a memory he had not taken out to examine for many long years, one with which he had never managed to come to terms.  
  
_Jack - tall an' strong an' beautiful, with a cold smile on his face an' cold steel in his hands, lookin' like an avengin' angel.  
  
Jack - unafraid an' angry; a force t' be reckoned with, and, for those few moments, one scary son of a whoreson bitch.  
  
Jack - riskin' everything without a second thought.  
  
Jack - steppin' up t' save the man he loved.  
  
Jack - an' the Warriors, face to face and nobody givin' an inch.  
  
Jack Fuckin' Twist - my hero._  
  
He closed his eyes, and shook off the image that rose in his mind, turning away from both the vista before him and the vivid memory that was reaching for him. This was not the time, he told himself. Maybe there would never _be_ a time, for confronting this particular recollection, for reconciling his own image of himself and the truth of that memory.  
  
Moving quickly - quickly enough to leave melancholy thoughts behind him - he returned to the truck and drove away - away from yesterday and toward the prospect of a brand new tomorrow. Mike and the new life he represented, in a new world that Jack Twist would never know, was waiting.  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
He had made better time than he'd expected, especially considering that the weather had worsened as he'd driven east, with snow coming down more heavily with every passing mile, mixed at times with wind-driven ice. Still, his truck was equipped with snow tires, and he was accustomed to driving in wintry conditions, so he wasn't overly concerned. He had stopped in Great Falls, to gas up, refill his thermos, and grab a burger so he was good for the rest of the journey. He had also used the pay phone at the station to let Mike know that he would be home in another two hours. Predictably, his partner had been less than pleased with the lateness of the hour and had taken advantage of the opportunity to voice his oft-repeated complaint about Ennis' refusal to carry or use a cellular phone. The simple truth was that there were times - many times - when Ennis did not wish to be available for conversation, and Mike knew full well that this was an attitude he was never going to be able to change, but that didn't prevent him from trying.  
  
Still, their final good-bye was soft-spoken and full of promises of what the night would hold, once Ennis' journey was done, and he continued on his way in better spirits. Half an hour later, the snowfall eased to an occasional flurry, and the roads became relatively clear, indicating that there had been no fresh accumulation during the last day or so. With a sigh, Ennis shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position to ease the ache in his back. He allowed himself to increase his speed slightly, eager now to be home and find comfort in his lover's arms, to ease the vague sense of melancholy that he had endured since his moment of epiphany by the roadside.  
  
Ultimately, he realized, he could resist with his whole heart the notion of stepping into a century bereft of the presence of Jack Twist; yet it would change nothing. Time would continue in its inexorable march into the future, and Ennis Del Mar would be swept along with it. It was only another instance which proved the maxim he had lived by throughout his life; it could not be fixed, therefore . . .  
  
By the time he drove through Lewistown, and approached the intersection of the county road that would take him home, he had achieved a measure of acceptance, but was aware of a growing urgency to return to the welcoming warmth of his home. At the same time, the skies were clearing, and the moon was edging up over the horizon, pouring liquid platinum across the wind-sculpted ocean of snow that transformed the hills and valleys into a fantastic setting without familiar landmarks.  
  
Realizing that home was now only twenty minutes away, he made the turn and pressed a bit harder on the accelerator, grateful for improved visibility. Five minutes later, however, he had cause for being less pleased, as he rounded a curve that followed the contour of Cherokee Hill to find that the road ahead was blocked by a half-dozen emergency vehicles, flashing red and blue strobe lights that painted garish stripes on the winter landscape. In the middle of the small traffic jam, two vehicles - an old Dodge pick-up and a dark, sporty Camaro - were tangled together in a twisted crush of torn metal and broken glass, and a group of paramedics, police, and firemen were working to extract two bodies from the wreckage, one limp and silent and the other writhing violently and moaning loudly. It was apparently not going well.  
  
Tamping down on a surge of annoyance - surely inappropriate under such circumstances - Ennis pulled over and got out of his truck, prepared to offer his help if it was needed, but a sheriff's deputy saw him approach and stepped forward to intercept him. "Hey, Mr. Del Mar. Hell of a night fer somethin' like this."  
  
"Sure is, Clyde, but I reckon there ain't never a good time fer this kind a thing. Anything I can do?" Ennis replied, watching as a stretcher was wheeled out of the waiting ambulance.  
  
"Naw, think they've got it under control."  
  
"Looks bad."  
  
"Yeah. Bob Cantwell's boy. Looks like he'd been drinkin' an' lost control on a patch a ice. Slammed into Victor Bergeron's truck broadside. Victor's shook up some, but mostly just bruised. The kid an' his girlfriend weren't so lucky. Gonna take some time t' cut 'em out a the car."  
  
Ennis nodded. "Reckon it's gonna be a while til the road's cleared."  
  
The deputy looked back toward the mangled mess of steel and chrome. "Yeah. I'm sorry, but you'd probably do better to go back and take Wheeler Road. Know it's a long way around fer ya, but this ain't gonna be cleared up any time soon."  
  
Ennis allowed himself a faint sigh. So much for being home in twenty minutes.  
  
He went back to his truck and executed a three-point turn to retrace his route and head back to Lewistown, where he would drive several miles up the highway to take the long circuitous route to arrive at the ranch from the opposite direction. He knew that Mike would be getting worried if he didn't show up soon, and figured that he'd have to stop and find a pay phone in order to prevent needless concern. It was a sure thing that Mike was not going to be pleased.  
  
He suppressed a sigh, accepting that there was no alternative.  
  
Unless . . .  
  
He was almost upon it before he spotted the narrow, unpaved road that lead off to his left, winding through a stand of fir trees before starting downhill. Willow Springs Road - an old logging trail that wound through a series of narrow valleys, paralleling a shallow creek for several miles before crossing over a narrow wooden bridge and ending at another country lane which rejoined the main county road just two miles south of the Busted Flush.  
  
He came to a stop, and considered his options. It appeared, from his vantage point, that the road was relatively clear, although he realized that he could not be sure it would be open all the way. Still, if it should prove passable, he would arrive home only a few minutes later than he'd originally intended, and he could see traces of tire tracks on the road's surface, so it was a good bet that someone had gone through fairly recently. He didn't want to risk getting half-way down the road, only to be forced to turn back. On the other hand, if the going got too bad, he would simply have to turn around and take the longer route. Ultimately, he decided that it was worth a try.  
  
As he made his way down the narrow lane, he proceeded slowly, his eyes peering into the darkness ahead - darkness that was intensified by the thickness of the trees around him, blocking almost all of the moonlight. Though there was snow on the road, there were no deep drifts, and his tires maintained a reasonable grip. Once or twice, the truck skidded slightly, but he recovered quickly. At the bottom of a long hill, the deeply rutted lane flattened, and there were patches of bare earth, where the snow had either melted or been blown away. Knowing that the bridge spanning the frozen creek was coming up shortly, Ennis turned on his windshield wipers to clear away condensation.  
  
As he continued without incident, he began to relax, growing more and more confident that he'd made the right decision in taking this shorter route. On impulse, he turned on the radio, looking for some relief from a silence that suddenly felt oppressive, and the soft, twangy voice of Randy Travis filled the cab, offering soft notes of gentle melancholy.  
  
_Oh, how often I wish that again I could kiss  
Your sweet lips like I did long ago,  
And how often I long for those two loving arms  
That once held me so gentle and close.  
  
And when I think of you and the love we once knew  
How I wish we could go back in time.  
Do you ever think back on old memories like that  
Or do I ever cross your mind?*_  
  
Definitely not something he needed to hear on this night, when sad-eyed ghosts lingered in the dimness at the corner of his eye.  
  
He started to lean forward to change the station, but felt a sudden wrenching spasm shoot through his spine as he twisted awkwardly, while, at the same exact moment, he felt a sickening lurch as the truck spun into a violent skid. Beneath the churning wheels, deadly black ice offered no purchase for the tires to grab.  
  
As if in slow motion, Ennis tried to turn the wheel, to ignore the horrific pain in his back so that he could steer into the skid, as the rails of the old bridge appeared directly in his path, but, in the end, he could do nothing but hold on and try to brace himself against an impact that he knew he could not avoid.  
  
There was a horrible metallic screech, a vicious crashing impact, followed by a slow slide over the edge of the embankment, ending in a rolling tumble toward the ice-crusted creek twenty feet below.  
  
Ennis knew a moment of sheer terror, a flash of disbelief, a sensation of wrenching disorientation, and - finally - a searing, crushing pain in his back and his chest, followed by an agonizing cold.  
  
Then - blessedly - after a single moment that seemed to last forever, he felt nothing.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
He did not know how long he had been unconscious; not long if the position of the stars above him was a true indication.  
  
But he realized quickly that it didn't matter. There were plenty of things that he didn't know - would never know. But he knew the one important thing, the one unavoidable truth of the hour.  
  
For a time, he lay quietly, trying to order his thoughts and assess his condition, but it was obvious almost immediately that any attempt to figure out the extent of his injuries was futile. He couldn't reach any conclusion about how badly he was hurt when there were no clues to follow; he couldn't feel anything.  
  
Which was, fundamentally, the only real clue that mattered.  
  
He wasn't cold, despite the fact that his upper body was half-buried in a snowbank. He felt no pain, no aches, no alarm, no despair.  
  
He could not move at all, except for blinking his eyes and shifting his focus, but his range of vision suggested that he was lying on his back, with the lower half of his body still encased in the twisted framework of his truck. A snowdrift had cushioned his head and shoulders, and he could see, peripherally, that its pristine whiteness had been stained with the crimson splash of his blood. The coppery smell filled his nostrils, and he wondered for a moment why he wasn't nauseated by the sharpness of the odor. But only for a moment.  
  
Thoughts seemed to skitter away from his grasp, like dry leaves before an arctic wind, hardly worthy of his notice.  
  
At last, with a sighing breath that he could not feel, that produced a pale, red mist that momentarily obscured his vision, he decided to concentrate on the only thing that seemed real in the midst of so much delusion: one bright star directly above him, glittering its brilliant pulse in a cadence that was almost rhythmic, almost hypnotic.  
  
He closed his eyes, but the bright pinpoint was still there, pushing back the darkness, spelling out its relentless message.  
  
_Jack!  
  
Was it like this for you, Cowboy?_  
  
No answer, of course. He had long since given up on getting any response, but the questions never really ceased.  
  
He opened his eyes again as he became aware of a scrap of melody riding the sigh of the night wind. The truck's radio was still playing, and an ambient glow somewhere off to his right suggested that at least one headlight was still burning. He listened for a moment. Then he realized that he would have laughed - if he could.  
  
_Christmas Eve will find me  
Where the love light beams;  
I'll be home for Christmas  
If only in my dreams  
If only in my dreams._  
  
He felt a brief wetness in the corners of his eyes, as his thoughts turned to his life partner, to what his long-time lover was going to go through, and he felt a stab of guilt as he acknowledged that his first thought should have been for Mike's pain and suffering.  
  
But this, he sensed, was a time for ultimate truth, and the one, universal, undeniable truth was that his first thought - yesterday, today, and for as much of tomorrow as he was going to have - had always been for Jack.  
  
_Jack an' pushin' off into forever.  
  
Perhaps, above everything else, it was time to look long an' hard at that memory, to understand all that it meant.  
  
Twenty-two years! Jesus, how could it be that long? November, 1977. One truly fucked up day, filled with miscommunications, misunderstandings, mistakes - and one act of heroism that he'd never been able to acknowledge as he should have.  
  
He'd been borderline furious when he'd stomped into the old roadhouse fifteen miles outside of Sage, worn out from a day spent pacin' around the cold clearing at the trailhead, waitin', hopin', getting' more an' more worried, an' - finally - gettin' madder an' madder as Jack . . . Jack Fuckin' Twist . . . failed t' show.  
  
By the time the bartender had poured out his third shot of cheap whiskey, he'd thought it all out an' come to a nasty conclusion, an' the fact that he had no real reason to turn his musing in that direction didn't do a thing to ease his sense of outrage. His thoughts had chased each other around in 'is mind, like huntin' dogs searchin' fer the scent of prey.  
  
"Fuckin' son of a bitch's prob'ly sittin' in a bar somewhere, flashin' them big blue eyes and big dimpled grins at some yahoo in a fancy suit and hat, packin' a roll of twenties in his pants, along with somethin' else that's sittin' up and takin' notice a the sweet shape a Jack's ass, while I'm sittin' around like a fool, waitin' fer him t' decide t' show up and spare me a little bit a his time. Should a known it'd happen, sooner or later. Should a figgered it out, that he'd git tired a settlin' fer what I kin give 'im. Nothin's ever been enough fer 'im."  
  
After the fourth drink, a new thought flared in the murk of his muddled mind.  
  
"Screw it! It's time t' go home, fool, an' fergit about Jack Fuckin' Twist. What th' fuck are ya doin', sittin' here cryin' in yer booze over a fuckin' li'l queer?"  
  
He stood abruptly, staggered a bit, and turned t' make his exit, only to find his way blocked by a burly guy in a black leather jacket, with a bandanna tied around his head.  
  
"Ya wanna watch it, Mac," he muttered, shouldering the man aside. "Fuckin' hippies!"  
  
As he lurched forward, a big hand closed on his shoulder, and jerked him around to face the person he'd pushed aside. Only now, instead of one big guy in a black jacket, there were four, and three of 'em were even bigger than he'd first thought.  
  
"Wha'd you say t' me, Hayseed?"  
  
The man was grinnin', exposin' big, nasty teeth, surrounded by a scraggly beard.  
  
"Said ya ought a watch where y'er goin'." A new surge a anger raced through his bloodstream, screamin' fer release. "Now git out a my way."  
  
The four men exchanged quick looks, before breakin' into ugly laughter.  
  
"You guys better take it outside," said the bartender, obviously not caring one way or another what might happen, but determined that it would happen out of his sight.  
  
"Good idea," said Big Teeth, pushin' forward and tightenin' his grip on Ennis' bicep, exposin' an ugly tattoo on his forearm of a bird of prey grippin' a bloody snake.  
  
Before Ennis could draw breath to protest or agree, he found himself propelled out the door, and sent sprawlin' on his back into a patch of ice.  
  
Overwhelmed by boilin' rage, he leapt to his feet and launched himself toward his original foe, the man he'd chosen as the means for workin' out his rage.  
  
He remembered little of the scuffle, for it was quickly obvious that the four buddies had no intention of abidin' by any kind a fair fight rules. He'd only gotten in a couple of good licks, when he felt himself grabbed and held by two of the men, while Big Teeth and another one a the bunch - leaner, maybe, but prob'ly meaner as Ennis spotted the ugly gleam of brass knuckles as the smaller man flexed his hands - stepped up to start workin' him over.  
  
His rage helped him to stand up under the assault, fer a little while, but he suddenly understood that he might jus' be in real trouble, when he felt somethin' give in his chest, under a roundhouse swing from his toothy opponent.  
  
"Not so smart now, are ya?" the big man demanded, with a laugh.  
  
"Fuck you!" Ennis saw no need to waste words or breath.  
  
"Now is that any way t' talk t' yer betters, boy. Somebody ought a teach ya some manners, and I'm the right man fer the job. Gonna mess up that purty li'l face, so jus' . . ."  
  
Suddenly, everything around the group went silent and still as a shadow fell across the group, and in the stillness, the sound of a hunting rifle being cocked was unmistakable.  
  
"Don't know about you fellas," said a soft, cold voice, "but where I come from, four against one ain't exactly considered the way things ought a be."  
  
"Ain't yer business," said Big Teeth, but he had raised his hands and stepped back from Ennis, and the two who had held him motionless suddenly couldn't let him go fast enough.  
  
"Figure it's anybody's business when a bunch of apes decide t' work a man over like that."  
  
"He started it," snarled the smallest of the group, while quickly slidin' his brass knuckles into his pocket.  
  
But not quick enough. Cold blue eyes, bluer than a clear, twilight sky, had seen it all.  
  
Ennis stepped away from his assailants, and stared, open-mouthed, at his rescuer.  
  
"Mebbe so," said Jack Twist, the 30-30 in his hands rock steady and pointed directly at Big Teeth's chest, "but I'm finishin' it."  
  
"Don't reckon you could shoot all of us, afore we get to you." Big Teeth wasn't willin' to give in without a fight.  
  
"Reckon not," said Jack with a cold smile, "but you better believe that I can take out at least two of you before ya do. So who wants a be first?"  
  
Somethin' in Ennis' brain whispered that he ought a step away, give Jack a clear shot if he needed it. But somethin' else refused t' let him move; somethin' else that jus' wanted a stand there an' stare an' drink in the sight a his avengin' angel.  
  
"You all right, Cowboy?" There was nothin' in Jack's voice to suggest that Ennis was anythin' more than a stranger who needed a helpin' hand, and Ennis realized quickly that he should play along. It was safer that way.  
  
"I'll live," he'd replied.  
  
Jack had nodded, without taking his eyes off the group standing before him. "Take off yer jackets," he'd commanded, after a moment a thought.  
  
"Now!" When the men hesitated just a bit too long.  
  
When the jackets had all been removed, and tossed in a pile at Jack's feet, he maintained his grip on the rifle while kneeling slowly and picking one a them up, glancing down to take note of the emblem on the back of the black leather. "Warriors!" he read, and the ugly smile was back on his face. "Warriors, my ass! Bunch a pussies is more like it. Biker trash, I reckon."  
  
Big Teeth had taken half a step forward, before noting that the rifle was rising slightly, just enough to allow him to look straight down the barrel. "Ya think y'er gonna git away with this?" he'd snarled. "Minute you walk away, we're gonna hunt you down an' . . ."  
  
"Take off yer pants an' yer boots!" Jack did not seem interested in the big man's threats.  
  
The four looked at each other, then looked back at Jack, and it was clear from the expression on his face that he wasn't playing a game here. Quickly, they all sat down to pull off their boots and shuck out of their jeans.  
  
Jack had taken half a step toward Ennis. "Figure it's a good bet that ya got a rifle in yer truck," he'd said. "Might be a good time t' git it out."  
  
Ennis had wasted no time in racing to his old truck and retrieving his own gun - a double-barreled shotgun - from the rack.  
  
When he'd returned to stand at his rescuer's side, Jack stepped forward and picked up all the boots, jeans, and jackets, not bothering to suppress a grin at the sight of the four bikers shivering in dingy briefs and ragged t-shirts . When the four moved as if to stand, he motioned for them to stay where they were.  
  
"Jus' so ya know, before ya go tryin' a follow me or this fella here, when we leave, ya might want a keep one thing in mind. You ain't in California, or Chicago, or New York now. This is Wyomin', and, around here, you gang up on a man and swagger aroun' like big, bad bikers, an' git yerself shot and buried in a shallow grave out on th' prairie, an' the sheriff comes around t' check on what happened, he figures out purty quick that the world's better off without the likes a you. Ya might want a remember that, afore ya start makin' threats."  
  
With a final grin, Jack had stood straight, and begun to back away from the pathetic foursome, Ennis matching him step for step.  
  
"What about our clothes?" It was the scrawny biker that asked, his voice trembling with cold.  
  
Jack's grin was brilliant. "They'll be where you can find 'em, one piece at a time. Reckon you can send out a search party once we're gone, providin' anybody's willin' t' lend ya a hand. Ya don't seem t' be the type that folks might feel sorry fer, but ya sure are a sorry-lookin' bunch now, so mebbe somebody'll take pity on ya."  
  
At his truck, with his eyes and his gun still trained on the bikers, he directed a quick remark to Ennis. "Cheswicke Road. Twenty minutes. Go, and don't look back."  
  
For once, Ennis followed orders, without a single word.  
  
A half hour later, when Jack pulled into the lay-by on the old gravel road that meandered through the low hills on the western edge of Brokeback, he had barely rolled to a stop when his truck door was jerked open and he was dragged from the cab, his mouth unable to protest the roughness of his treatment because it was being swallowed by Ennis' lips and teeth and tongue.  
  
"Stupid son of a bitch! Crazy, stupid son of a bitch!" Ennis seemed unable to put together any other words. "Could a got yerself killed."  
  
Abruptly, Jack stepped back, a strange look flaring in his eyes.  
  
"I ain't the one that started a fight with four fuckin' bikers, Ennis. What the hell were ya thinkin'?"  
  
Ennis had gone rigid, his face twisting as if in pain. "Don't matter," he replied. "Where th' fuck you been?"  
  
"Couldn't git away from home on time," Jack replied, still hearing' something in Ennis' voice that made him uneasy. "Had t' go t' Lightnin' Flat early last week, when Mama took a bad fall and broke her hip. Couldn't leave til my Uncle Harold was able t' come over and look after her."  
  
Ennis turned away and spent a few minutes looking up toward the sky, where heavy clouds were rolling in.  
  
Jack was quiet, trying without much success to catch his companion's eye. He didn't have much to go on, in trying to figure out what had sent Ennis to that roadhouse and into that confrontation, but then again, he'd known this man for fourteen years, and didn't need much.  
  
"You were mad at me," he said softly, walking away from Ennis, and blinking away the moisture in his eyes. "That's why you were there, spoilin' fer a fight. You thought I wasn't gonna show."  
  
Ennis heard the hurt in the gentle voice. "Jack, I . . ."  
  
"You stupid son of a whoreson bitch!" Ennis froze, hearing genuine rage in the snarled comment, something he'd heard only very few times during the years they'd spent dancing around the central issue of their lives. "Is that what ya think a me? That I'd jus' stay away and fergit about you? In case ya don't know it, Ennis, you ain't some kind a iron man. Ya say that I could got myself killed, but y'er the one that put himself in danger."  
  
"Jack, I . . ."  
  
"What the fuck do ya think I'd do, if somethin' was t' happen t' you?"  
  
Ennis turned quickly and wrapped Jack in his arms, determined to read the look in brilliant blue eyes.  
  
"What do ya mean?" It was barely a whisper.  
  
Jack said nothing, trying to twist free, but unable to break away.  
  
"Tell me," Ennis insisted. "What do ya mean?"  
  
Jack took a deep breath and went still. "If somethin' happened a you, Ennis, I . . . I wouldn't want no part of a world without you in it."  
  
Ennis felt something moving deep in his chest, an ache that had nothing to do with the bruised ribs he knew he had. "Don't you say that. I mean it, Jack, don't . . ."  
  
But Jack's jaw had gone firm and hard, and Ennis knew what that meant. Most times, about most things, Jack was easy-going - easy to move and influence. But once in a while, a rare streak of stubbornness flared up, and he could be as unyielding as cast iron.  
  
Jack looked straight into Ennis' eyes as he answered. "Without you, I'd just want the world t' stop and let me off, so I could jus' push off into forever."  
  
Unable to figure out how to form an answer, Ennis settled for bracing Jack's face with his hands, and covering his mouth, allowing his kisses to speak all the words he could never let himself say.  
  
When he pulled back, he ran his fingers through inky-black hair, and rustled up a smile. "Lucky ya didn't shoot yerself. Couldn't b'lieve it when ya said that ya could shoot two of 'em afore they could git to ya."  
  
Jack shrugged. "If they'd called my bluff, reckon we would a gone down together."  
  
He tucked himself against Ennis body, and reveled in the warmth of the arms that held him safe. "I can think a worse ways t' go."_  
  
Ennis watched as a shooting star brightened the sky, and thought about Jack. About why he had never been able to come to terms with what had happened that November night so long ago.  
  
Jack had stepped in and saved him, like the white knight in all them old fairy tales, and he knew that there was no doubt about that. Without his friend's intervention, he was pretty sure he would have been beaten to death in that parking lot. And he knew now why it had been so hard to accept - because _he_ was the one who was supposed to be the hero, the one who was needed rather than the one who did the needing, the rescuer.  
  
Except that now, as time narrowed around him, spiraling down toward darkness, his massive self-delusion was crumbling before his eyes. For all his bravado, all his obsession with _maleness_ , he had come finally to an elemental truth. It was Jack who had saved him, not just that once, but over and over again. Jack who had taken on the heroic role that allowed Ennis to preserve his emotional defenses, to lay the burden of blame on the man who was strong enough and brave enough to carry it.  
  
_"Jack Fuckin' Twist. My hero."_  
  
He could only wish that he had learned the truth earlier, in time to show Jack that he'd finally allowed himself to touch reality, in time to share his realization with young Bobby, to give him still more reasons to be proud of his father.  
  
He thought that he should have left instructions in his will - the one that was on file in his lawyer's office - that the inscription on his tombstone should read, "Too late."  
  
Too late, indeed.  
  
Above him, the stars seemed to quiver, and he felt the ghost of a smile touch his lips.  
  
_He had never wanted to live in a millennium in which Jack Twist had never existed._  
  
For a long, long time, since many years before, he had believed that he would not live to see the beginning of a new century.  
  
By a margin of thirteen minutes, he was right.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

* _Do I Ever Cross Your Mind?_ \- Dolly Parton

TBC

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

  
_Roll up the plains.  
There's too much view for me.  
There's so much space between  
The waiting heart, and whispered word,  
It's never heard  
  
One room will do for me,_ _  
Where every evening I can stare  
At someone smiling from his chair  
Across the floor,  
A million miles away behind the door.  
  
* A Million Miles Away Behind the Door_ \-- Alan Lerner/Frederick Loewe  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Ain't quite sure why I never give much thought t'death and what comes after, though I guess it's fair t' say that I spent a good deal a time thinkin' about th' actual dyin' an' what happens durin', but now, I can say one thing fer sure. It turned out better than I ever expected. I remember a flicker, like somethin' flashin' in the corner a my eye, while I lay there in th' snow, unable t' feel anythin' or move a muscle; then I just stood up and backed away, still lookin' down at my own face.  
  
It wasn't a purty sight, I can tell ya, but it was only a minute or two before I started feelin' like I was lookin' down at somebody else, somebody that belonged in a world that didn't have nothing t' do with me.  
  
Course, there's some would say that I didn't choose t' dwell on any notions about what happens in th' afterlife 'cause I already had a fair idea a what was waitin' fer me, once I crossed over, seein' as how I lived the kind a life that th' fire an' brimstone crowd would a condemned as abomination an' seein' as how I never set much store in askin' fer redemption when I never had no intention a repentin' my sins.  
  
Course, that don't mean that I was lookin' forward t' roastin' over Ol' Nick's undyin' flames, but I lived m' life the only way I knew how, and if that guaranteed me a place in that fire pit, then I'd figger I earned it, even when I never managed t' figger out how I could a done it different. Somethin' made me what I was, but I reckon there weren't no sense in tryin' t' find somebody t' blame.  
  
I'd done that once and paid a big price fer it, when I was young an' stupid and didn't know shit about what life could take from a man when he wasn't lookin'.  
  
I wasn't plannin' a make the same mistake again.  
  
But I have t' admit that I was purty grateful that there weren't no avengin' demons with smokin' pitchforks waitin' t' escort me t' my eternal reward. It's early yet though; reckon there's plenty a time fer whatever holy justice might be waitin' fer me, but I've yet t' git a glimpse of any kind a inferno.  
  
Instead, there's . . . this. A place filled with a pure, cold light that don't cast no shadows, and strange, pale shapes that seem t' fade back into nothin' when I look straight at 'em. Like clouds driftin' over th' mountains, which I also cain't see, but I'm purty sure they're there. Mebbe later, I'll be able t' see more.  
  
But I have a notion that I ain't gonna be able t' turn around and take a look at where I am or where I'm goin' until I'm finished lookin' back t' where I was, an' that's the hard part.  
  
Dyin', by comparison, was a piece a cake.  
  
It was daylight by the time they found me, and I was grateful t' Sheriff Carroll fer what he done fer me and fer Mike.  
  
An' he didn't have an easy time of it. Mike had been up all night, waitin' an' hopin' but mostly dreadin' what was comin'. He didn't admit his feelin's t' anybody while he paced th' floor and bugged th' hell out a anybody he could raise on the phone an' sent the ranch hands out t' search the countryside, but I didn't need t' hear th' words. We hadn't ever really talked about it, but ya don't live with a man fer more'n ten years without learnin' some things that he never bothers t' tell ya; Mike had a kind a sixth sense sometimes. He'd feel things shiftin' around 'im, and know things he had no business knowin'. Several times durin' that long night, he'd walk up t' stand in front a the fireplace, and his eyes would move from the paintin' a me to the one a Jack - an' back again - an' I could feel th' pain rise up in 'im like a flood tide. It was almost more than I could bear, so there's no knowin' how hard it was fer him. I had some kind a stupid notion that me bein' there, right there in th' room with 'im, might a made it easier on 'im, but it didn't. I was standin' close enough t' reach out an' touch 'im, although somethin' told me not to go quite that far, but he was way too lost in th' fear that was eatin' 'im alive t' sense anythin', even if there'd been anything t' sense.  
  
I'm brand new at this, a course, but I'm already purty sure that there's a wall standin' twixt me an' them that are still among th' livin' - a wall I ain't gonna be allowed t' step through.  
  
But I still feel like this is what I'm s'posed a do. Hoverin' around like some kind a fuckin' butterfly to watch th' things that I set in motion play out th' way I planned.  
  
The sheriff come himself, t' bring Mike the news. An' he stood tall in refusin' t' let my partner go out t' the scene a the accident.  
  
By the time Mike saw me, I'd been taken t' the li'l hospital in Lewistown, an' the doc had cleaned me up some. I'd like t' b'lieve it was easier fer 'im that way, but I cain't be sure. He stood lookin' down at me, and th' only word I kin think of t' describe how he looked is gutshot - like somethin' had jus' slammed into his body and tore 'im t' shreds. Ronnie an' Jerry was there with 'im, and had t' pick 'im up when his legs give out on 'im, but I honestly don't b'lieve he really knew who was there.  
  
An' I look at 'im now, sittin' in front a the fireplace. Jus' sittin'. There's a glass a whiskey in front a him, an' cigarettes on the table, but he don't seem t' notice nothin' but the flames blazin' on the hearth.  
  
I'm so sorry, Darlin'. I wish I knew how t' make it better fer ya, but th' truth is that I know it's gonna git worse - an' soon.  
  
An' I wonder if he'll ever be able t' fergive me fer all I done, an' even if I'll ever really fergive myself.  
  
In th' end, there wasn't no other choice I could make, but that ain't gonna make it any easier fer him.  
  
I wonder now if it'd a made any difference if I'd known that dyin' wasn't the end a everything, but I really don't think so. What I done was what I had t' do, but I sure am wishin' now that there'd been some way to fix everything so nobody'd have t' git hurt. But I should know that life jus' don't work out that way - or death neither, I guess.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Time's strange here; that's something ya notice purty quick. One minute, I was sittin' an' watchin' my partner try t' figure out how t' get through the night, an' hopin' against hope that he wasn't gonna really pull that ol' revolver out a his desk drawer. He didn't, but I know it's somethin' he really wanted a do. I know cause I remember exactly how that feels. Sixteen years ago, I felt th' same urges. An' the thing that stopped me from goin' through with it was the same thing that stopped him. I couldn't figger out how t' do it without hurtin' my kids so bad that they might never git over it.  
  
It was the same fer him. Mike loved me, just as much as I loved Jack Twist, I guess. I felt a catch in my heart when I realized that, an' wished it wasn't so, but there's some things there's just no way a gettin' around.  
  
I watched him open the drawer and stare down at the gun for a while; then he pushed away from the desk, and walked to th' window t' gaze out at the ranch we built together.  
  
That's one a the bad things about losin' somebody like this, without no warnin' and no time t' git ready fer it. Everywhere ya look, ya see things that remind ya of what ya lost. I wondered then if Mike would be able t' go on livin' at the ranch. I thought it'd be best fer 'im, cause he really loves the place, but that'll have t' be up t' him t' decide.  
  
A few blinks later, I was taken off to another place, one I know I never saw before, but recognize anyway.  
  
Bobby Twist is sittin' behind a big wooden desk, sprawled in a fancy leather chair, starin' at a computer screen, when his phone rings. He don't look pleased t' be interrupted, frownin' as he reaches for the receiver; I'm too distracted t' pay much attention though, cause all I can see is the photos on the wall behind his desk. Jack. My Jack - in a half-a-dozen different poses; by himself, with Bobby, with a purty woman who has t' be Lureen, astride a big chestnut stallion with a lasso in his hand, flippin' steaks on a big barbeque pit, grinnin' like a fool, or sittin' on the edge of a fancy bed an' holdin' a tiny new baby, his face all soft an' tender. It nearly takes my breath away (even though I don't really have breath any more), an' I can't help but think a all the years when I kept him hidden away, in a place where nobody could see 'im, and all that time, he'd been here, bold as brass and twice as sassy. I sometimes think that 'sassy' is the word that suited Jack best.  
  
Bobby listens fer a minute, not sayin' anything. Then he manages t' squeeze out a single word. "Okay."  
  
More silence, an' a deep sigh. "I'll be there."  
  
He hangs up then, an' spends a few minutes starin' off into space, before leanin' forward and coverin' his face with his hands.  
  
"Goddamn, Ennis!" he whispers. "Never thought ya'd go like this."  
  
There are tears in his eyes, an' I'm dumbstruck. Son of a gun! Jack Twist's baby boy - cryin' fer me! Don't that beat all?  
  
Over the last few years, we got t' know each other - a little bit at a time - when we'd take our little rides up the mountain every year in early summer. Got t' know about each other's lives, an' families an' - mostly - got t' trust each other with shared memories a Jack. I reckon we got t' be friends, at least enough so that, when his own child was born - Jack, Jr. - he'd brought the baby up t' Lightnin' Flat so that I could go an' git a look at 'im.  
  
I'd spent that whole day in a kind a daze, wonderin' how many generations it'd be before the blue in them eyes dimmed to where they were just blue, instead a the color heaven ought a be.  
  
Except that now I know different. It ain't blue here, but then again, it prob'ly ain't heaven neither.  
  
Bobby don't dawdle long with 'is grievin', if that's what it is. He's got a chore t' do, an' I cain't tell if it's somethin' he wants t' do, or somethin' he dreads.  
  
In all the years since I first put that envelope in his hands, he's never once asked me about it, an' he's never opened it. I'm glad now t' see that I was right when I decided t' trust 'im.  
  
I hadn't bothered t' listen in t' the voice on the phone, but I could purty much quote it, word fer word. Herbert McPhee, attorney-at-law, was never much fer fancy speeches an' flowery words. "It's time t' open th' envelope," he would a said. "Ennis got himself killed in a car wreck last night, and he left me instructions t' call you when the time came."  
  
Short an' to the point.  
  
"Ya'll need t' come up here, fer the funeral. If y'er willin'."  
  
There's a big cabinet behind Bobby's desk, with a lock on the middle drawer. When he opens it, he goes still fer a minute, like he ain't sure he wants to go through with what he has t' do, but he does it anyway. Good kid, although I reckon he wouldn't be too pleased t' be called a kid any more at the grand old age a thirty-two.  
  
That thought strikes me hard fer a minute. Jesus! Bobby Twist is thirty-two years old, an' he was just a wet-behind-the-ears teen-ager when his daddy died. Where did all the years go? My own Junior and Jenny both in their thirties, with kids a their own.  
  
When did I git so old? It don't seem fair somehow, that I got old, and Jack never did.  
  
Bobby sits back down at the desk, and spends a couple a minutes just starin' at the old manila envelope. When he finally opens it, he does it slow and careful, like somethin' inside might break if he's too rough with it.  
  
No worries there. The only thing broken in that envelope is an old, weary heart.  
  
Finally, like he's gettin' impatient with his own ditherin', he opens the clasp and dumps the contents out on is' desk.  
  
He don't say nothin' as he stares down at the little pile a stuff, but I can almost hear him thinkin'; it sure ain't much t' show fer twenty years.  
  
A little stack a postcards, rubber-banded together. A bandanna, dark red and stained with sweat and dried blood. Another postcard, separate from the others, with a bright colored picture showin' a mountain peak against a late afternoon sky with dark clouds hangin' off t' the west. A small key, with a numbered tag on it, and one battered, slightly flattened harmonica - the cheap kind that you can buy in any truck stop.  
  
Jack wasn't th' only one that kept souvenirs a that magic summer.  
  
Bobby's right; it surely ain't much t' show fer twenty years, but, for a long, long time, it was all I had.  
  
He shuffles through the pitiful assortment. Then he sees the letter.  
  
If I had breath any more, I'd be holdin' it as he unfolds it and spreads it out on the desk.  
  
  
_"Dear Bobby,  
  
First of all, I want a thank you for what you done. I want a thank you for bringin Jack back to me. For a long time, I'd lost him, and I thought that was just the way things were sposed to be, but the truth was that I lost him because I thought it was the right thing to do, to let him go. I was wrong, and you helped me to know that.  
  
All the stuff you see here won't mean much to anybody but me, but I thought you might want to have it, when the time's right. Everything you see here was a part a your daddy and the times we shared. Sad to say that, out a twenty years, we really only had a few months together. But those months were the only times I ever felt really alive. There ain't no words to tell you what Jack was to me. I'm still learning that myself.  
  
But since you're reading this, it means that I got no more time for anything, except to say good-bye and to ask a favor. A big favor, I know, and if you feel like this is something you can't do, ain't no one gonna fault you for it.  
  
My lawyer, the fella that's sposed to call you when the time comes, has all the details. But basically, you'll find a key in with all the stuff in this envelope. It's a key to a safety deposit box at the Citizen's Bank of Lewistown. There ain't nothing that's valuable inside that box - except to me. There's only a couple of old, dirty shirts that won't mean nothing to nobody else, but, for me, they're worth more than I could ever explain.  
  
I'm asking you now to go get those shirts, and to take them with you when you follow the directions I left for you in my will. I think you'll know what to do with them.  
  
Your daddy was the finest man I ever knew. You remember that, and teach your kids the same, if you ever have any. Jack Twist was never nothing to be ashamed of.  
  
Thanks for all you done for me - and for him.  
  
Sincerely yours,  
  
Ennis Del Mar"  
  
_ He reads it twice, an' I see new tears in his eyes.  
  
I hear the door openin' behind me, and watch as his wife - all soft curves an' lanky grace an' bright an' purty as a spring colt - comes in with a steamin' cup of coffee. An' I notice, for the first time, that I can see her jus' fine, and hear the sounds she's makin', but I can't smell the coffee at all. An' I spend a moment thinkin' - also for the first time - of how many things I might a lost.  
  
She pauses as she looks down an' sees the grief in his face.  
  
"What's wrong, Honey?"  
  
He hands her the letter, and she reads in silence. Then she looks up, an' her eyes are brimmin' with tears. "D'ya know what he wants ya to do?" she asks.  
  
He nods. "I think so. Gonna need t' take a trip t' Montana."  
  
Her smile is gentle. "I'll pack our stuff." She starts to walk away, but turns back an' kisses him, long and deep.  
  
"Not that I'm complainin'," he says with a lopsided smile, "but what was that for?"  
  
She touches his face with loving fingers. "For bein' the man your daddy would a wanted you to be."  
  
I'm there just long enough to hear . . . an' agree.  
  
Then I'm somewhere else. I don't think it makes much sense to feel tired here, since I'm purty sure I ain't really got a body that's able t' feel anything at all. If I did, I think I'd be noticin' things like hot or cold or dry or wet . . . things like that. But I guess there's somethin' - maybe in the mind - that makes me feel a need t' rest fer a time. So I do, although I don't think it's really somethin' that I decide fer myself. It just happens. I spend the time thinkin' about all the visits I paid t' that bank vault over the years, an' all the times I sat there with my hands wrapped up in denim an' plaid, my face buried in soft, old fabric, surrounded by walls a boxes that was prob'ly full a family jewels an' stock certificates an' God only knows what else, an' I know that it don't matter what else might a been locked up in that vault. Mine was the only real treasure there - the link to my heart.  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
When it comes, it's a whole lot quieter than I expected it t' be. In fact, it's almost a whisper, instead of the roar I was half waitin' for.  
  
I stir myself out a  wherever it is that I am, get a quick look at a blur that might be some kind a green landscrape, and find myself back at the ranch, standin' near th' window and watchin' Mike try t' pretend that his heart ain't bein' ripped out a his chest. He's so still - barely even breathin'. I remember how that feels - t' be so still on the outside, like y'er frozen in place while everything on the inside is bein' crushed an' mangled. Only this time, instead a bein' the one bein' crushed, it's me that's doin' the crushin'. I knew that it would be bad, if it ever came t' this. But I couldn't a guessed jus' how bad it would be, partly 'cause I never really knew how much he loved me. Not til now.  
  
"Cremated." He can barely breathe the word. "Why would he . . ."  
  
I see it as it hits him, as he understands, and oh, my God, I would give anything t' be able t' spare him this, but it's way too late fer that.  
  
The game's gotta be played as I laid it out, but oh, man, I am really, really sorry that there wasn't any other way.  
  
"It's all spelled out in his will, Mr. Stansbury." McPhee is just as dry an' matter a fact as always. "He made th' arrangements himself, several years back. We'll have the formal readin' a the will after the funeral, a course, an' I don't think there'll be any big surprises there. He took care a his girls, an' he took care a you. But there are a few things that are a little unusual. An' this is one a them - the funeral an' this letter. It's been sittin' in my safe since he gave it to me almost five years ago. I don't know what's in it, because he made it clear that it was for your eyes only. So . . ."  
  
The skinny ol' man, with his string tie an' his shiny bald spot, stands up and hands Mike the long white envelope he'd pulled from a bulging briefcase. I take a minute t' wonder why on earth a two-bit lawyer in a dinky little place like Lewistown would be carryin' around so much paper, but realize that it don't really matter. It's likely that he's been carryin' some of it since he first hung up his shingle.  
  
Mike just sits there fer a minute, holdin' the letter in his hands, unopened.  
  
McPhee takes 'is leave, an' Miss Cora is standin' at the door, debatin' whether or not t' speak up or let 'im be. In the end, she turns away, sensin' that this is somethin' nobody can help him with.  
  
He pours himself a hefty slug a whiskey and tosses it back before rippin' the letter open, an' I move a little closer, feelin' like it's the right thing t' do, even though there ain't no way t' make this easier fer 'im.  
  
He looks worn out an' beaten down an' he's aged a lot durin' these few days, with new lines showin' at the corner of his eyes an' dark circles underneath 'em. He slumps back against the sofa cushions, but his shoulders are still hunched an' stiff. His hair's droopin' across his forehead, but he makes no move to smooth it back, an' he can't quite control the tremor that touches his mouth as he starts to read. I don't think he even realizes that he's readin' aloud, takin' deep breaths as he stumbles through the words on the page.  
  
_"Darlin' Mike.  
  
I sure hope that this day was a long time coming, but, if you're reading this now, it's clear that something has happened, and I'm not around no more. I know that there's no way for me to know what you're goin through, and I hope you understand that I never wanted to hurt you.  
  
For however long we had together, I've loved you with everything I had to give. You're a good man, and you've warmed my heart and filled it with joy and peace like I never dreamed anybody would. I know that we spent our lives being faithful to each other; after I met you, I never wanted no one else.  
  
But there's more to this story than the years we had. There's what come before, and I need to make things right that were left too long unfinished. As much as you've meant to me, there was a time when someone else meant just as much. You helped me complete my life, but he was the one who gave it to me in the first place.  
  
Everything in my life that was worth having started on that mountain. Everything that I am was born there, and now it's time for me to go back to where it all began. I know this is going to be painful for you, and I regret that more than I can say. But this ain't something that I have a choice about. I know now that I was always meant to go back to the mountain, to the place where I came alive for the first time. So I have left instructions to have my body cremated, and the ashes handed over to Jack's son, Bobby. He'll know what to do with them. He's a good man, and I know that he won't dishonor you with his actions. It might be too much to hope that you and him could ever get to be friends, but I hope you won't be too hard on him or hate him for what's not his doing  
  
I know this is one of the hardest things you've ever had to do, and I feel like a real bastard for asking you. But I'm still asking.  
  
Remember that I love you - that I will go on loving you, if there's anything that comes after death - but I have to ask you to let me go. In my heart, I know it's what's meant to be.  
  
I can't even begin to tell you what you've meant to me.  
  
Love,  
  
Ennis"  
  
_ For a time, he just sits there, starin' down at nothin'. Then he slowly collapses over on his side and buries his face against a tattered old pillow; my pillow, taken from my side a the bed. The tears come then, and plenty of 'em, but all in total silence.  
  
He don't make a sound, and I feel more like a total bastard than I ever did before.  
  
I want a turn away, 'cause I find now that I'm so tired a hurtin' people who only want a love me. Two men - so different . . . and so alike.  
  
Have I done the right thing? Will I ever be sure?  
  
Maybe not, but that don't change the fact that this was the only way. I still don't know -might never know - if the notions I had about Jack, about what he might a done to help me build a new life after he was gone, were real or just my own stupid imaginin'. But I couldn't ignore what my heart told me.  
  
It was Jack; it was always Jack.  
  
"I knew it, ya know." Mike's voice is soft, as if he's speakin' t' himself, but he's lookin' straight at me as he goes on. His eyes are unfocused and driftin', but it's purty spooky anyway. "I always knew you'd go back t' him in the end. Ya didn't have t' tell me. I always loved ya enough t' let ya do that, even if I couldn't always admit it."  
  
An' I close my eyes and wonder what I ever did in my life t' deserve this man, an' the one that come before him.  
  
Suddenly, I don't want a be in that room no more; I'm not even sure I want a be anywhere at all, and, just like that, I'm somewhere else. I don't know where I go, or how long I'm gone; I only know that it's peaceful in that place, that there's a softness beneath an' around me an' that I'm not in any hurry t' leave.  
  
If this is heaven, I reckon I can git used t' it.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
Well, one thing's fer sure. It ain't Heaven.  
  
Cain't be. Not when I'm forced t' stand here, watchin' what my dyin' has done t' the ones I left behind.  
  
Is it Hell? Mebbe, but not like I ever expected it to be. Ain't no physical pain in this - no burnin' in eternal flames, no screamin' in blistered agony. But anybody who's ever had t' watch someone they love suffer knows the truth of it. There's worse things than physical hurtin'.  
  
If it was up t' me, I wouldn't be here atall, but it ain't up t' me. Don't know yet who's pullin' the strings, who decides what I can do an' what I cain't, but I wasn't given no choice about bein' here. It's like I gotta settle up the bill fer what I left behind, before I'm free to turn around and explore what comes next - if anything _does_ come next. Still ain't too sure about that. But whatever the reason - an' whoever guides what's gonna happen next - here I stand in one a the viewin' parlors a the Quinton & White Funeral Home in downtown Lewistown, watchin' my daughters fall t' their knees by my coffin, while they look down on my face, a face I barely even recognize as my own. I don't pay much attention t' how I look, except t' note that I'm glad somebody - prob'ly Miss Cora - had sense enough _not_ t' deck me out in a suit an' tie. My sons-in-law are with my girls, but don't seem t' know what to say t' make 'em feel better. Reckon I remember how that feels - t' be helpless to do anything t' help - but they're doin' their best, and I kin see now that both Junior an' Jenny made good choices, even if neither one a their fellas ever had much use fer me. Tell ya what, it's dead sure that the things they b'lieved about me was all 'cause a the way they was raised, and they was only behavin' the way they was taught t' act, the way most everyone else acts. But it's plain that they care a lot about m' girls, and I'm grateful fer that.  
  
Standin' nearby - close enough t' be a part a the group, but separate just enough t' be noticed - Alma an' Monroe are both lookin' proper an' grim, an' just a bit uncomfortable. It's been a long time since I saw her, an' my first thought is that the years have been purty good t' her, with just a few strands a gray in 'er hair an' just a few frown lines around her mouth, but then I notice that her face is tight like a clenched fist, an' there's a hard glitter in her eyes. An', just like that, I know what's eatin' away inside her. My daughters might a found their way t' acceptin' me fer what I was an' puttin' aside their prejudices out a love fer me, but Alma never will. So much fer Christian charity, I guess.  
  
Even after all these years, she's still full t' the brim with outrage an' resentment, an' she's here only because she judges it's the proper thing t' do, to show support fer her children. Under the mask she's wearin', though, some part a her is laughin' fit t' beat the band an' celebratin' her belief that I'm finally gonna face divine retribution.  
  
Monroe, of course, just looks lost and confused - like always.  
  
Off t' the side, gathered around th' little pulpit where someone will speak whatever words are t' be spoke over me, Mike stands with Ronnie an' Melanie an' Miss Cora, an' I wonder, fer the first time, who will say those words, an' what those words might be. That's one thing I didn't think t' arrange in advance.  
  
Mike looks mighty handsome, like always; he's wearin' his best dark suit and clutchin' the brand new black Stetson that I gave 'im fer Christmas, an', fer once, his hair is stayin' where it's s'posed to. Reckon Melanie had a hand in that. But lookin' good don't hide how he's sufferin', an' I can tell that he's runnin' on sheer will power now. No real strength left in 'im, and I wish that this day would hurry up an' end, so he could go home and find some peace there, in the comfort of his children's presence an' the memories I left behind me. I jus' hope that'll be enough.  
  
Fer a few minutes, I stand there, close enough t' touch 'em, but I find out purty quick that I have t' back away and get some space between me an' them. I know that I cain't really be smotherin' under the weight a all the misery that Junior and Jenny are carryin' around, but that's how it feels. I want a be able t' give 'em some comfort, t' take away some a the hurt they're feelin', but I cain't. All I can do is step back an' fight t' git my own hurtin' under control - my hurtin' fer them, not fer me. Fer me, I reckon the hurtin' is over. Or is it?  
  
When I turn an' see my grandchildren, all gathered together in a front pew with Alma's sister lookin' after 'em while their mamas grieve over me, somethin' stirs deep inside a body that's s'posed t' be beyond feelin' anything. I read th' sadness in their eyes - the ones that'r old enough t' understand what's happened an' why they're here - an' the blank confusion in the faces a the ones that 'r too young t' grasp it, an' I realize that some a them won't remember me at all. So I'm learnin' real quick that it's a big mistake t' think that I'm beyond hurtin'.  
  
I been hurt before though, enough so that I know that, as bad as this is, I've known worse. But this ain't the time or place t' think about that old pain - about Jack.  
  
This is the time an' place where th' people I love - and a few that I prob'ly should a loved, but didn't - the livin' souls I left behind me, are entitled t' cry out their pain an' their anger an' ask why things have t' be the way they are. It's Junior that keeps sayin' that it ain't fair - that her daddy was too young, that he should a had a lot more years t' spend with his children and his grandchildren. An' the awful sufferin' in her voice cuts through me like a wicked sharp blade, but somethin' deep in m' heart reminds me that I was lucky enough t' be able to be there when those precious babies were born into the world, t' be able t' hold 'em and kiss' em an' taste the sweetness an' softness a their skin. Others weren't so lucky.  
  
An' that thought is barely formed in m' mind when there's movement at the doorway. I don't have t' see the man who's just stepped in t' know who he is. I see it in the eyes a my daughters', an' my partner, an', most of all, I see it in the glitter a blind rage that flashes in the eyes a my ex-wife.  
  
It's Alma, driven by fury, who moves fastest, an' confronts him first.  
  
"What in God's name are you doin' here? Ain't you done enough?"  
  
I look at his face an' - even after all this time - I still have t' say it t' convince myself. "It ain't Jack, it ain't Jack."  
  
Bobby doesn't know her, a course, but he ain't Jack Twist's kid fer nothin'; a quick wit lets 'im figger it out before anyone can step forward t' tell 'im.  
  
"You must be Alma," he says firmly, without a bit a hesitation. "My name is Bobby."  
  
Alma recognizes her mistake immediately, realizin' that, a course, this cain't be Jack; life couldn't a been so cruel as t' leave 'im still young and untouched by time. But it don't really matter t' her: Jack 'r Jack's spawn. Neither one a them has a place here, accordin' t' her sense of what's right an' proper.  
  
"I don't care what yer name is," she almost snarls. "Ya got no right . . ."  
  
"He's got every right." Mike's voice is quiet an' flat, and only someone who knows 'im well would be able t' hear the anger he's fightin' t' control. "Ennis wanted 'im here."  
  
Alma turns t' stare at the man who shared the last years a my life, and she ain't botherin' t' try t' hide the contempt that's ragin' in her heart; there's plenty of it t' spread around, an' plenty a targets fer it t' aim at. "An' y'er just gonna stand by an' let 'im come in here. Do ya know who he is 'r what he prob'ly is? Like father, like son, ya know. He's . . ."  
  
"He's the son a Jack Twist." It's a new voice that chimes in, a new voice that strikes hope in my heart. A voice I never would a expected t' hear speakin' up at a time like this. "He's the son a Jack Twist," Junior repeats, "an' nobody has a better right t' be here."  
  
She steps forward and takes Bobby's hand, a sweet, gentle greetin'. Then she turns t' face her mother. "Ya need t' go home, Mama." There's no anger in her voice, an' no resentment either. But there's also no confusion. "Ya cain't help how ya feel about Daddy, an' no one's gonna fault ya fer that. What he did - what he was - hurt ya real bad. But it hurt him too, through most all the years a his life. He paid fer his sins, if that's what ya want a call 'em. He paid more than we kin even understand, I think. An' now - here - he's finally got the right t' say what he wants. An' what he wants is fer the son a Jack Twist t' be here, an' fer you t' step aside an' let the people who loved 'im have time t' grieve and say their good-byes."  
  
I happen t' be lookin' straight at Alma as Junior goes quiet, and I see somethin' in her face that surprises me and fills me with a sadness I never expected t' feel.  
  
"I . . . loved him too." It's barely a whisper, barely even a breath.  
  
Monroe pretends not to hear; cain't say I blame 'im since I don't know how I'd behave at a time like that. Probably easier t' go on like it never happened.  
  
I hear the faint sigh that Mike can't quite suppress, as Junior offers her mom a tender smile. "I know," she murmurs, "but ya need t' step back. Go sit with yer grandchildren. They need ya now."  
  
An' she goes, without another word an' without a single glance at the young man who's still standin' before her, a beautiful baby clasped against his shoulder and a lovely young woman at his side.  
  
Everything goes quiet fer a few seconds, as Junior nods and smiles at Chelsea Twist, an' Mike steps forward t' stand face t' face with Bobby. For a few seconds, neither speaks, but it's Mike that finally breaks the silence.  
  
"Goddamn, he was right," he says with a slow, lop-sided smile. "Ya sure look like yer daddy."  
  
Bobby extends his hand, and, with just a tiny pause, Mike takes it. "I'll take that as a compliment," says young Twist, relaxin' enough t' flash that smile that won his daddy a lot a hearts.  
  
Mike nods. "Yeah. I reckon ya should."  
  
I look around the room once - see a lot a faces that I'm surprised t' see, even see a lot that I don't recognize right away. Faces from a long time ago, a lot of 'em faces a people I figgered would a stayed away from any kind a memorial service fer the likes a me. See th' pale face a my sister, an' wonder when she got t' look so much like Mama, an' see that her children have made the trip with her, t' help her get through this, even though her own brother - an' mine - couldn't be bothered t' show up.  
  
Jus' goes t' prove that we none of us know other people the way we think we do.  
  
Maybe things ain't always how we think they are, an' people ain't always so fast t' condemn 'r so slow t' forgive. Maybe . . .  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
I don't know how I know that things have shifted here - shifted t' a new kind a time, maybe. Or shifted to a different place. Without any physical feelin' - any sense a solid things, of sweet or sour, soft or hard, thick or thin. I feel, but only from a distance - not up close, not personal. Things have started t' come an' go - some fast, some slower, but none bright an' clear. After I leave the funeral parlor - either choosin' t' drift away or bein' tugged by somethin' I never noticed, ain't sure which - I know that things are happenin', but only from a distance.  
  
The memorial service is there in the background, I guess, an' I know that it's Miss Cora who steps up t' the pulpit and says what she thinks needs sayin'. The only words that come floatin' through t' me is somethin' about "a good man, who did what he had t' do an' would be remembered fer a lot a things". Then, a little later, there's folks comin' an' goin' at the ranch house, an' a few frozen images - Bobby standin' in front a the fireplace, his eyes all soft an' bright, holdin' his baby close and whisperin' something in that tiny ear; Alma an' Monroe, sittin' off in a corner, clingin' to one grandchild, then another, lookin' uncomfortable an' out of place an' even jus' a little bit envious as their eyes take in all th' details of the house; Mike an' Ronnie an' Jerry an' Bobby an' Nathan, hoistin' a glass t' offer up a toast . . . to something; Jenny an' Chelsea sittin' an' feedin' their babies, an' talkin' together like old friends; Bobby an' Mike standin' out by the corral while Ronnie brings Chamois out a the stable and puts the reins in Bobby's hand, introducin' the feisty mare t' her new owner.  
  
A shift again, an' I'm somewhere else, somewhere where things are brighter now - sharper an' closer. Bobby in a bank vault, openin' the safety-deposit box, and liftin' out the two shirts, an' jus standin' there fer a while, eyes focused on somethin' no one else could see. Memories a his daddy, maybe - or dream images a him . . . an' me. I don't know which, but there's no mistakin' the love in eyes almost blue enough t' be the ones that haunted my dreams all my life.  
  
An' finally - not far away at all, but up close and personal an' bright in every detail - Bobby, leavin' the little camp where he'd pitched his tent the night before and tethered his new mare, where his lovin' bride is still cozied up in her sleepin' bag, as he climbs that familiar trail and stands on the lip of that shelf, where no flowers bloom in January, but where the memory lingers anyway, glistenin' in the spray of the waterfall. Sunrise is jus' flarin' in the East, an' the snow that lies deep on the flanks of the mountain picks up them first rays and breaks 'em into fragments a fire that paint strips a gold an' red an' copper across the landscape. I'm thinkin' it ain't never been more beautiful, an' neither has the man that stands on th' edge a the breakin' day.  
  
He quickly piles up some brush an' dry kindlin' that he dragged up from below, an' lights a little fire. It don't need a be big - just hot enough.  
  
The shirts are dry when he pulls 'em from the canvas bag that held them, an' I wonder why I never noticed how much they'd faded over the years. He pauses for just a second, buries his face in the combined folds, and murmurs something I cain't quite make out - a whisper about things that never die. And again, I'm stunned an' amazed when I see that tears are drippin' from his eyes, as he drops the shirts into the flames, and watches as they blaze up, sendin' sparks into the pale mornin' light. Then he turns t' face the dawn.  
  
He ain't - quite - Jack - but he's close enough t' glow so perfect in m' eyes that I cain't see nothin' else 'r feel nothin' else except th' love that ain't never left me, ain't never been far enough away fer me t' close it off from the center a my heart, the same love that's wrapped up in the fire that's burnin' behind 'im now.  
  
I spend a single moment regrettin' that I could never give Mike what always belonged t' Jack. He deserved it; I just didn't have it in me t' give.  
  
I'm there with Bobby, with him and around him, caught up in the blaze that consumes them old shirts, an' watchin' as he twists the top off a small, dark container an' lifts his hand toward the sunrise, an' then - between one heartbeat an' the next - I'm flyin', soarin' out over all creation, a part a everything, a part a nothin', an' I know, fer the first time, that the life I lived is behind me, is gone. And so am I.  
  
There's no time fer sayin' good-bye, but I hope he hears it anyway.  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
I don't know how long I've been here now. Ain't much that happens t' mark time passin'. An' I still don't have much in the way a clues t' help me figger out what this place is s'posed a be.  
  
But I reckon the mind fills in the blanks, even without havin' many facts t' go on.  
  
Seems t' me that a person has t' find a way t' heal from what he left behind before he can even think about figgerin' out what to do next. Once in a while, I get a sense a things that I'm s'posed t' know, or remember. Things I'm s'posed t' care about - enough t' take a look any way.  
  
Sometimes I listen; sometimes I don't.  
  
But the place has grown around me anyway. Like I thought from th' beginning, it's mountains wherever I look, mostly green an' fresh, like early summer, but it ain't the mountains that I was kind a expectin'. Though the place seems a little familiar, there ain't really any one thing that I recognize. I get the feelin', though, that the places I would recognize are somewhere nearby - just around some corner I ain't yet found.  
  
I'd say that it don't bother me none, but that wouldn't be exactly true. It does bother me, but I try not to let it show.  
  
Because that's the other thing that's different from my first days here. I'm not alone any more. Not entirely. Sometimes, I see other people, mostly off in the distance; once in a while, one 'r two of 'em come closer. But not really close enough t' see well. I don't think any of 'em are people I'm s'posed t' know 'r remember, but I cain't be sure.  
  
Still, bein' by myself never bothered me much; spent plenty a time with no company but my own, an' learned t' deal with it purty well over the years. So the fact that nobody seems t' want a come closer ain't such a burden fer me.  
  
Except I'm beginnin' t' b'lieve that the reason they don't come near is 'cause they're waitin' fer me t' make the first move.  
  
I'm not sure a that, a course, but it feels right.  
  
But I still remember what Bobby Twist tol' me, about his daddy comin' t' save him when he got hisself mangled up on the side a the road. An' I'm thinkin' that, if somethin' like that should happen a one of my girls or one a their young'uns, I want a be close enough t' do whatever I have t' do. Like what Jack done fer Bobby.  
  
So I've tried t' stop in once in a while, t' check on what's happenin' t' the ones I left behind.  
  
So I happened a be there when Melanie got herself married t' some television weather man down in Laramie. An' when Junior's oldest broke his collarbone playin' freshman football. An' when Jenny's tiny baby daughter - beautiful and perfect - was stillborn, an' the doctors told her there wouldn't be no more. It hurt then somethin' fierce, t' be there lookin' down at her an' not be able t' take her hand or touch her hair. But much as I wanted t' be able t' make it right, there really wasn't nothin' I could do.  
  
An' when Mike's stallion took a tumble in a gopher hole, an' he had t' drive over t' Butte, t' see a bone doctor about a messed-up knee - a bone doctor who'd just moved out from Vermont, lookin' t' build himself a new life. I was right there, watchin', and I can't say why, but there was somethin' about that doctor - about him an' Mike together - that give me a funny feelin' in my gut.  
  
But mostly, nothin' much bothers me. Everything is all right.  
  
Except for the question that forms in my mind sometimes, an' gets louder every time it pops up.  
  
Is this all there is?  
  
An' the day finally comes - this day - when askin' ain't enough.  
  
It's time t' git some answers.  
  
I'm layin' in the grass on the mountain I've come t' think of as mine. Mebbe, in order t' git them answers, I gotta take a walk an' explore somebody else's mountain.  
  
An' it ain't near as hard as I expect it t' be. I stand up, brush m'self off, tuck my shirt in m' pants (wonderin' if the shirt an' the pants, an' the body that wears 'em are even real) and start t' walk down the mountain.  
  
An', just like that, I'm there. I'm on somebody else's mountain, and there's people walkin' around, people who smile at me even though they don't say nothin' - a young couple holdin' hands, an older woman wearin' a bonnet an' apron an' pickin' wildflowers; a grizzled ol' cowboy ridin' a big Appaloosa geldin', some kids playin' hide an' seek in the woodland. All of 'em look at me; most smile or wave, but go on about their business.  
  
Til one a them stops, an' waits fer me t' step forward t' stand in front a him.  
  
He grins, and I think I ain't never met nobody quite as old, or quite as content t' be however old he is.  
  
"Welcome," he says. "Took ya a while, didn't it?"  
  
I jus' look down at m' boots an' wonder if they're really the same scuffed up ol' work boots that I wore fer so many years or just a figment a my own mind.  
  
"They're whatever ya want 'em t' be." He answers my thought, even though I didn't speak it.  
  
I look up at his face, and somethin' tells me that it's okay t' voice what's in my mind, t' say what I want a say, an' - more important - ask what I want a ask.  
  
"An' this place." I swing a hand around t' take in the whole settin'. "Is that what it is, too? Is it what I want it t' be?"  
  
"In a way," he answers, and I know it ain't th' whole answer, but it's all he's ready t' give me.  
  
I suddenly remember my manners. "I'm Ennis," I say, puttin' my hand out.  
  
He laughs, an' takes my hand. "No need t' introduce yerself," he explains. "I know who ya are."  
  
"An' you?"  
  
He pauses and studies my face. "Ya sure changed a lot over th' years, Ennis. Fer th' better, I reckon. I believe there was a time when you'd a swallowed yer tongue before askin' fer a person's name. It's Gabriel."  
  
"Gabriel." I repeat the name, mostly t' be sure I won't ferget it. Ain't never been much good with rememberin' names. Now t' get down t' business. "What is this place, Gabriel? Is it heaven?"  
  
He cocks his head and gives me a funny smile. "Reckon that's yer call, Ennis? Is it?"  
  
I feel somethin' cold an' hard inside me - a nameless dread. "Lord, I hope not." I don't think I mean t' say it out loud, but I do.  
  
He shrugs. "Then it's not."  
  
"Then, what . . ."  
  
"Mebbe," he interrupts, "it's the place where a fella can figger out jus' what he wants heaven t' be. Ya'd be surprised how many people don't know jus' what they want."  
  
I turn around then, lookin' back toward where I came from, but I'm quick t' realize that it ain't there, where I left it. "Naw," I say. "I don't think I'd be surprised at all."  
  
I'm puzzled when I see a quick sadness rise in his eyes. "Mebbe ya wouldn't," he answers finally, after takin' a minute t' think about what he wants t' say. "Mebbe y'er one a them that never comes to know exactly what he wants. That'd be a real shame, but it happens sometimes."  
  
"Why?" I don't know why his words make me feel angry, but they do. "Why would it be a shame t' be unsure?"  
  
"Because," he says slowly, "until ya know what ya really want, ya'll never find it."  
  
He starts t' turn away from me, but I reach out an' grab his arm, flinchin' back when I realize that I cain't really touch him. Still, even though I can't feel the way my hand grasps his arm, he seems t' notice anyway, an' stops t' look back at me.  
  
"I do know what I want," I say, almost snappin' at 'im. "I do."  
  
But he's shakin' his head. "No, ya don't."  
  
"How can you know what . . ."  
  
"Simple. If ya knew, if ya'd already thought it through an' really knew, you'd a found it already. It ain't enough t' tell yerself 'r t' tell me that ya know what ya want. Ya gotta know it inside. With no doubts."  
  
"I got no doubts," I insist.  
  
"No?" He looks at me hard, and I'm surprised t' notice that he's got one blue eye and one brown one, an' neither one a them seems all that eager t' believe me. "Okay then. Why don't ya tell me what it is ya think ya want."  
  
I don't even stop t' think. "Jack. I want Jack."  
  
To my surprise, he nods. "Yeah. I thought that's what ya'd say."  
  
I feel my knees go weak, as I stumble toward him. "You . . . you know about . . . Jack?"  
  
He nods, but volunteers nothin'.  
  
"Can ya tell me, 'r show me where he is?"  
  
"No." No weakness there, no uncertainty, no softness.  
  
"But . . ."  
  
"If it's right fer you t' know, if it's what yer heart really wants, ya'll find 'im. But it's not something I can give ya."  
  
An' I finally see some kind a reaction in his eyes. He ain't inhuman after all; he can still git mad. "In this place," he says coldly, "ya can do almost anything. There ain't a whole lot a rules here. Not much t' stop ya from doin' whatever ya choose t' do. But there's one 'r two things that a person cain't do - is forbidden t' do."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Like break a promise," he snaps. "That's one rule nobody can break here."  
  
"So . . . you promised him somethin'?"  
  
"Don't do that," he replies. "Don't try t' worm it out a me, by wheedlin'. It ain't gonna work. If ya want Jack - ya really want 'im, an' no other - then ya gotta think it through. Ya gotta understand what y'er doin', not just fer you. But fer Jack. Think about that. If ya push hard enough, an' it's what ya really want, I'm purty sure ya'll find 'im. But ya better be sure, 'cause ya won't only change everything around you; ya'll change everything around him too, an' once it's done, fer him, there ain't no undoin' it."  
  
"Ya mean . . ." I can barely speak it, "he might not want what I want, but he'd have no choice, if I make this happen."  
  
He draws a long breath, or so it seems. "I mean that Jack made a choice once - a choice he believed was forever. He thought it was th' right thing t' do, an' it ain't up t' me t' decide if he was right 'r wrong. But mebbe it is up t' you. But you better be sure, Ennis Del Mar, 'cause there ain't no takin' it back. Once it's done, it's done."  
  
I feel somethin' heavy an' dark stirrin' around inside me, an' I turn away from eyes that seem t' see too much. An', jus' like that, I'm back on my mountain, knowin' that I got some thinkin' t' work through.  
  
Was I right? Was the choice he made - the one he thought was 'forever' - the one that set me free t' find someone else t' love, after he was gone? But if that's true, why wouldn't he want t' go back t' the way it was before? Why wouldn't he . . .  
  
I see it an' feel it then. Feel what it must a been like fer him. If he made that choice, if he gave me that chance, then he would a been there t' watch it all happen. T' watch me an' Mike.  
  
Oh, sweet Christ, what did I do? An' how did he stand it? If he loved me - an' I always knew that he did, no matter how hard I tried t' deny it - how could he a stood t' watch what happened after he was gone?  
  
I think about how I felt when I watched that new doctor runnin' his hands over Mike's knee, an' I know, like I always knew, that no matter how much I might love Mike, it was never anywhere near th' level a what Jack an' me felt fer each other. If he did what I think he did, if he gave up everything t' let me live a better life after he was gone, how did he stand it? What did he do, t' be able t' live with it?  
  
An' if I do something t' change it all, does that mean that he has t' live with all that hurt all over again?  
  
Can I do that t' him? If I really love 'im - and oh, God, did he ever know how much I really loved 'im? - can I take away whatever comfort he might a managed t' find fer himself? After he gave everything up fer me, to help me find a new life, do I even have the right t' force 'im t' come back t' me?  
  
Here in this place, could it be that he finally found somebody to love 'im the way he deserved t' be loved?  
  
Is it hours - or days - or years - that I spend twistin' in the wind? Unsure a what I ought a do, 'r even if I ought a do anything at all.  
  
Tryin' t' figger out if Jack is happier where he is, than he would be if I set out t' find 'im and pull 'im back t' me.  
  
But, in the end, I know that I don't have no real choice.  
  
I know the truth - the one I never could admit t' myself 'r t' him. I cain't go on without Jack. He was always the strong one, the one who would a give up anything fer me. The one, I know now, who really did give up everything fer me.  
  
I set out again, when th' sun (or whatever passes fer the sun in this place) is bright an' pure with the promise of a new day, an' spring flowers are bloomin' all across my mountain.  
  
I move to the next mountain - an' the next - with no effort. I don't sweat; there's no strainin' a muscles; no weariness no matter how far I seem t' walk, an' it's still mornin' wherever I go.  
  
But, after a time, there is a difference; ahead of me, there's a darkness - not the darkness a evening, or the fall a night, but a darkness that covers a small stretch a hillside, a gloom that's deep an' thick an' unmovin'.  
  
I pause an' try t' see past its edges, but I cain't. It's like a black curtain that's fallin' all around something I'm not meant t' see.  
  
But I know now; I know what lies on the other side a that curtain, and I ain't gonna be stopped by something that swallows the light.  
  
I reach out, an' find that there's nothin' solid there. There's just a space where no light enters. A space that reaches fer me an' pulls me in.  
  
And then I see what I realize I was expectin' t' see. It ain't really empty. Gabriel is there, waitin' fer me. Starin' at me, an' blockin' my path.  
  
"Get out a my way." I ain't in the mood t' be interfered with. "I want . . ."  
  
"I know what you want. But you gotta know this. You only get one chance to make the right choice. If y'er wrong, it ain't you that's gonna pay the price fer yer mistake."  
  
"I want a see him."  
  
He hesitates fer a minute; then he steps aside.  
  
And I finally know what heaven means.  
  
Jack. My Jack. Stretched out on the ground, his lithe young body propped against an old log, long legs crossed, arms folded over his chest, and his face covered with a dark cowboy hat with an eagle feather in the band. Jack - exactly as he was the first summer I saw him. Jack - sleepin' at the center a the darkness. His face is barely visible in the shadow a the hat, an' the small pup that's snugged tight t' his chest moves not at all. There ain't no rise an' fall a breath, no flutter a eyelids. Nothin'.  
  
I can barely find the courage t' ask.  
  
"Is he . . ."  
  
"Dead?" I hear the grin in Gabriel's voice, an' understand that I don't even know how t' come up with the right questions.  
  
"He's no more alive than you are, Ennis, but he is, in a way, more dead."  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
Long, deep sigh. "Look closer," Gabriel replies. "What do you see?"  
  
I stare, an' am so thunderstruck by how beautiful he is that I almost don't see it - the faintest, barest flicker of somethin' I cain't name. Somethin' that's almost not there, almost gone.  
  
"Just a little spark a something. Like the last ember of a dyin' campfire."  
  
Gabriel smiles. "That's very good, Ennis. An' very true. What y'er seein' is the last bit of his consciousness. It's all that survives of what he was."  
  
"But why? He's . . ."  
  
"He's sleepin'," comes the answer. "He's been sleepin' fer a very long time. It's what he chose t' do."  
  
"But why would he . . ."  
  
"That's somethin' ya have t' figger out fer yerself." The old voice seems suddenly weary. "But I can tell you that he's at peace, an' that sometimes, that's what a person might want, in the face a other things."  
  
"Can I wake 'im up?"  
  
Gabriel's eyes are gentle. "I don't know, but, in fact, y'er the only one who might be able to. It's been a long, long time, an' whatever spark a life is left in 'im has been gettin' weaker over time. In the end, it's gonna depend on him, an' whether or not he held on hard enough t' be able t' come back, an', maybe, if he believes that he can. But I will say this. Lots a others who made this choice let everything go, a lot quicker than he has. So maybe, somewhere down deep inside 'im, there might be a little, bitty spark a hope, something that he never even knew he had in 'im. Maybe. But know this, Ennis. If you succeed in wakin' him, then the choice t' sleep, t' find peace this way, is taken from 'im fer good. An' no matter whether you b'lieve it or not, peace was what he wanted most of all when he made his choice. So ya gotta be very sure a what you want. Yo do this, an' it's forever - fer him. He won't be able t' go back, to choose this again. When he made his decision, there was no way he could know that it might ever be taken back; he was willin' to spend forever like this. So if y'er not willin' t' make that kind a commitment, it'll be far kinder t' leave him as he is."  
  
I hear what the man is not saying. "And Mike? Do I . . ."  
  
He pauses, an' when he starts t' speak again, I can feel that he don't like what he's got t' say. "This ain't no prison, Ennis, an' there ain't no predestination in what happens, here or anywhere else. Ain't nobody gonna force ya t' do nothin' ya don't want a do. People really do have free will, ya know, so y'er free t' do whatever ya decide, even if it happens that ya change yer mind along the way." Then he gives me a sad, funny smile. "Mike's not you, an' he's not Jack. There are all kinds a men; some are meant t' walk on one path all their lives, like Jack. Others will always have options. Mike makes his own way, an' it's fer you to decide if that way is gonna be yer way. Mike's the kind that don't need intervention."  
  
I close my eyes, and remember. "Like I did." It ain't a question, an' he don't offer up no answer.  
  
Then I realize that, in a way, his silence is th' answer, and that it's exactly what I figgered it'd be. But I find that, in my heart, it don't make no difference. I do feel a quick surge a sorrow for the man who loved me so well, an' a twinge a regret about lettin' go a something that was precious while it lasted, but it's not enough t' make me change my mind.  
  
I stand an' look down at Jack. My Jack. An' even though he's right there, touchable, right under my hands, it feels like he's off somewhere, maybe floatin' through a sky full a stars, too far away fer me t' ever be able t' reach 'im, so, more scared that I ever been in my life, I kneel down an' pull the hat away from 'is face, never stoppin' t' wonder how I'm able t' manage it, an' oh, my God, how could I ever a let myself fergit how beautiful he is an' how much I love 'im. "We belong together," I say, barely able t' make a sound above a whisper. "An' if we have t' spend all eternity side by side, not ever able t' really touch each other or feel each other, only able t' see each other an' talk t' each other, then that's the way it'll be. An' if we only have a day - one day - t' spend together, afore hellfire claims us both, then that's okay too." I lift my eyes, an' stare into Gabriel's face. "He's my heart. He always was, an' I need t' be able t' say it t' his face, even if I only git the chance t' say it one time."  
  
Somethin' flickers in bi-colored eyes - somethin' that might be a glint a humor, or the flash of a secret smile - an' he nods.  
  
"Go ahead then. I reckon it's been long enough. By my figgerin', he's been asleep fer more'n ten years, in real time."  
  
Everything in me tells me t' move, t' reach out, but I cain't. I'm not sure what t' do, an' I have trouble findin' the words t' form the question that's screamin' in my mind. "What if he don't . . ."  
  
An' I almost cringe away from the sadness in 'is voice. "I reckon it's his privilege t' decide what he wants."  
  
He's dead right, a course. If anybody's ever earned that right, it's my sweet Jack.  
  
I don't know why I'm so afraid - so unsure now, when every dream I ever had is lyin' right here, just inches away, waitin' fer me. An' I won't b'lieve - cain't b'lieve - that it could really be too late, that he might not be willin'. "How do I . . ."  
  
I'm surprised when I hear him laughin' soft an' steady, an' I have t' swallow the urge t' tell 'im t' shut up. "Well, now, looks t' me like he's sure 'nough sleepin' an' ain't no doubtin' that he's a beauty, so . . .  
  
"Y'er kiddin'," I mumble, lookin' up t' see the smile in his eyes. "He won't even feel it."  
  
"Trust me," he says gently.  
  
An' it surprises me t' realize that I do.  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
_. . . . . Darkness . . . .  
  
. . . . Thick, heavy . . . .  
  
. . . . . . Dark . . . and warm . . . and . . .  
  
. . . . Dark . . . but different.  
  
Cause if it wasn't . . . I wouldn't notice how dark it is. Not - quite - as dark as before.  
  
But still dark . . . still warm . . . an' soft. Still perfect . . . for . . .  
  
. . . . I remember dreamin' . . . once.  
  
But no more. No more dreams . . . No . . . more . . .  
  
Dreamin' comes . . . an' goes . . . . an' leaves lonely when it's gone.  
  
No more colors (eyes like dark amber) . . . no more memories (big hands, rough an' hard - an' so gentle, until they grip someone else's body, fingers trailin' through someone else's hair . . .) No more. . . sounds - a voice . . . sayin' a name . . . my . . . name?  
  
. . . Sayin' "Little Darlin'." . . . t' somebody that ain't . . . me?  
  
No.  
  
No dreamin' . . . no . . . nothin'. . . . cause nothin' . . . don't hurt . . . . .  
  
. . . . . . Dreams . . . . . . . hurt.  
  
. . . . . . . . . No . . . . . No . . . . . . . . No . . . .  
  
I won't . . . . I cain't . . . . . I . . . .  
  
It . . . . . . . cain't . . . . . . . . . be . . . . .  
  
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO . . .  
  
. . . But somethin' . . . is getting' closer.  
  
An' . . . it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, ithurtsithurtsithurts . . . .  
  
I . . . don't . . . want . . . this . . .  
  
But denyin' . . . don't make it so.  
  
When ya ain't felt nothin' - nothin' at all - since . . . forever . . . feelin' anything . . . HURTS!  
  
An' somehow, I don't want a come awake screamin'.  
  
But - finally - there's no help fer it._  
  
Every muscle in my body (Do I even still _have_ a body?) clinches tight in a spasm, an' my eyes are blinded by the light when I finally open 'em. Granted, it ain't a lot a light, but I ain't seen light - any light - in a long, long time.  
  
"Jack." Somethin's coverin' my face. "Hey, Jack. Come on, Cowboy. Come on . . . come back t' me."  
  
I think there's somethin' in my eyes. Am I cryin'?  
  
I feel a touch - hands against my face, lips coverin' mine, an' somethin' in my mind is screamin' that it cain't be, it cain't be . . .  
  
So when I open my mouth, when I manage t' form words and speak 'em, never movin' away from the touch a those soft lips, the only thing I can think to say is . . .  
  
"Is this . . . a dream?"  
  
An' he laughs - sweet an' soft - an' why are there tears fallin' on my face if he's really laughin'? "No, Darlin'. It ain't a dream."  
  
But it is. It cain't be real, and I want a cry like a lost child when I feel th' deep hurt of it, t' dream a somethin' I cain't never have again. I always knew, from that last day, that there wouldn't be no wakin' up, no goin' back. So . . .  
  
"Stop," I whisper. "I cain't take this. I cain't . . please. Don't do this."  
  
But the kisses git deeper, an' the hands on m' face grip harder. "You wake up." The voice ain't so soft no more, an' there's a sharp edge to it, like there's anger under all the need. "You wake up, Jack Fuckin' Twist. Or else, I swear, I'll punch yer face in. Gonna do that anyway, fer the stunt ya pulled. Gonna do it, just as soon as I git m' fill a kissin' it. In a few hunnerd years, I reckon."  
  
An' I cain't help but smile. It's so _him_ \- so what he'd say, if . . .  
  
"En . . . Ennis?"  
  
He goes very still, drawin' back just a little, so I can look up into his face, an' some part a my mind notices that the little dog that I held in my arms throughout my long sleep stirs an' moves away, yawnin' an' blinkin' its eyes as the light around us gets brighter.  
  
_"Ennis!"_

  
Oh, I want a believe, I want a . . .  
  
"I ain't . . . dreamin'?"  
  
But I still don't - cain't believe it. He's right there, close enough fer me t' touch, close enough fer me t' see that he looks like he looked that very first day, the first time he ever touched me, the first time he kissed me . . . the first time.  
  
It cain't be real . . . can it?  
  
I try t' draw breath - try' t calm th' heartbeat that cain't be real - an' decide that if this is a dream, if it's just a dream, an' it's the last one I'm ever gonna have, I'm gonna make Goddamn sure that it's one worth takin' back with me inta forever.  
  
I push up, push at him, usin' muscles that prob'ly ain't any more real that this dream, an' shove him, hard enough to make 'im fall back, so I can roll over an' brace myself t' stare down at 'is face, a face that was smilin' at somebody else, the last time I seen it.  
  
A face filled with dark eyes that look at me like a man dyin' a thirst might look at a pool a water. Hungry . . . lost . . . an' waitin' fer me t' make the first move - or the only move.  
  
A dream fer sure, cause Ennis Del Mar wouldn't be lyin' there, lettin' me make the call, somethin' he never stood fer in all the years I knew 'im.  
  
I shift back, drawin' a shaky breath an' see, fer the first time, somethin' that really makes me ask if this can be real.  
  
I'm thinkin' there ain't no reason I'd invite Gabriel inta my dreams.  
  
"Hey, Jack."  
  
An' it's too much - too harsh t' take in. I push myself up an' reel away from the vision that I still cain't accept as real.  
  
"Why would ya do this t' me?" I ask. "Ain't I done enough? Ain't I . . ."  
  
"It's real, Jack." The old man's voice is tender, soothin'. "He's real."  
  
I turn sharp t' stare at 'im. Then turn further, t' stare at . . . Ennis, OMyGod! It's Ennis!  
  
I remember that I always thought that Gabriel liked me, but now all I can do is wonder.  
  
"Did you . . ." The old man looks like he knows what I'm gonna say. "You lied t' me." I can barely get the words out.  
  
"Never." His answer is firm. "Not once."  
  
"Then how . . ."  
  
Then he smiles again, and the warmth in 'is eyes is like sunlight breakin' through on a cloudy day. "Do ya really want a spend yer first wakin' hour in ten long years yellin' at me, an' demandin' explanations?"  
  
"Ten . . . years?"  
  
"Ten years."  
  
"But you said . . ."  
  
"I'll explain it all," he says, with a gentle smile. "Later. Meanwhile, I think ya might have a few things t' explain t' Ennis."  
  
"Like what?" I'm still starin' at the man who owned my heart through my whole life, still not sure that he's really here. An' he's just smilin' at me - not sayin' nothin' - which is one thing that seems right, that makes me think that maybe . . .  
  
The old man's smile gets bigger an' brighter. "Like he was jus' tellin' me how he wanted a spend forever with ya, even if the two a you cain't ever really touch one another again."  
  
What th' fuck does that . . . Oh!  
  
"I think I'll just be moseyin' along."  
  
That's Gabriel speakin' again, but I don't bother t' answer, or even t' watch him go.  
  
It's just me now . . . an' Ennis.  
  
Ennis Del Mar - here, real, an' drinkin' me in with his eyes.  
  
"Ennis." I cain't muster up more than a whisper. "Come 'ere."  
  
He comes, slow, steady, eyes heavy, dark, full a my reflection, until he's right in front a me, his chest brushin' against mine, no space left between us. Then, with a strange, guttural groan, he falls t' his knees and wraps his arms around my waist, buryin' his face against my belly.  
  
"I know what ya done, Jack." His voice is muffled, and he won't look up at me. "I know what ya done, what ya gave up fer me."  
  
I feel a flash a anger surge through me. "He wasn't s'posed a tell ya. He . . ."  
  
"Nobody tol' me nothin'." It's barely a whisper. "I ain't such a dumb-ass that I wasn't able t' figger it out. Cause I knew you, knew how ya felt about me, an' what ya'd do . . . fer me."  
  
There's a heavy pressure in my chest now, with memories roilin' through me like a flood tide. "You knew?"  
  
"Always. I always knew an' I let ya go, all them times, without ever makin' sure that you knew too. I know what ya done, and I know what ya went through t' do it. I'm so sorry, Jack. So sorry that I never . . ."  
  
"Don't," I say, sharp an' harsh. "Ya don't have t' . . ."  
  
He stands up an' grabs me - hard. "Yes, I do. I do have to, an' you ain't gonna stop me. Y'er gonna listen."  
  
I cain't speak, so I just nod, an' close my eyes. Don't know why I'm so scared, so afraid t' hear whatever it might be that he wants a tell me. I look up then, an' lose m'self in his eyes. "You," he whispers, "y'er my heart, Jack Twist. You were always my heart. From the very beginnin'. An' every day since ya left me - every single day - I've longed to have jus' one more chance - jus' one more minute - t' tell ya. I love ya, Jack. Always did, always will, an' if ya want a spit in my face, tell me t' fuck off - whatever ya want a do, it ain't gonna change nothin'. I'll love ya, as long as I have eyes t' see ya, an' arms t' hold ya. I'll love ya forever. An', if y'er willin' - 'r even if y'er not - I aim t' spend th' rest a my days provin' it to ya."  
  
I feel the tears start in m' eyes, an' wonder why I'm cryin' when he jus' gave me th' most precious gift I could ever receive, the only thing I ever really wanted. Then I feel my mouth stretchin' into a silly grin. "Oh, yeah? An' how do ya think ya'll do that?"  
  
His smile lights up his face. "I reckon I'll think a somethin'."  
  
Time now, I think, to give somethin' back.  
  
"Close yer eyes," I murmur, an' take time t' watch his face, t' read what I see there, what's starin' me in the eye and makin' me wonder if what I'm seein' now was there all along, an' I was jus' too dumb t' understand it.  
  
"What are ya . . ." he starts t' ask.  
  
"Hush now," I say as my hands move up t' frame his face. "Jus' hush, an' think about how it felt. Think about my fingers against yer face, touchin' yer lips. Think about how we felt, how ya liked t' touch me, an' be touched. Think about it, an' open yer mind. Think . . ."  
  
An' I see it in 'is face, the instant that the deadness of his body - the emptiness of his physical consciousness - falls away, and he _feels_.  
  
"Jack?" Breathless, barely audible.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Would ya . . ."  
  
"Would I what?"  
  
He smiles, soft an' tremblin'. "Is it allowed . . . here?"  
  
"Is what allowed?"  
  
"This." An' he starts t' kiss me, long an' deep, and the taste a him an' the touch a him - the feel a him - sends me t' my knees, and him with me.  
  
If I still needed air t' breathe, I'd be in trouble now.  
  
"Can we . . ." He don't have t' say no more.  
  
"I don't know. Never had no need t' find out . . . til now."  
  
The kisses start again, and he barely manages to speak between 'em. "What's the worst that could happen?"  
  
"I reckon," I whisper, not willin' to miss out on a single second a the touch a his lips, "they could throw thunderbolts at us - shit like that - if it ain't allowed."  
  
He buries his face under my jaw and bites down just hard enough fer me to know he's leavin' a mark. "I'm willin' t' risk it," he mumbles.  
  
"Me, too."  
  
"Jack?"  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"Is this Heaven?"  
  
I smile and nuzzle at the hollow of his throat. "I think," I say softly, "that's what we're about t' find out."  
  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
He sits back against the old log, an' stares at me, like he's never really looked at me before, an' I have t' stop fer a minute, because it's just . . . it's almost too much. To go from a sleep that I never thought t' wake from to here, quick as a whiplash, with 'im gazin' up at me. It's too much.  
  
"Jack?" There's somethin' in his face that I cain't read, an' I guess maybe he's feelin' the same dizziness that's grippin' me - like standin' at the lip of a high peak an' watchin' the world spin beneath ya.  
  
Ain't never had a shy day in my whole life, an' think it's purty Goddamn stupid to be goin' through it now, but I suddenly don't know what t' do, or how t' do it. It ain't enough now, fer us t' just go at each other like cattle in rut. It ain't enough, an' I don't know how t' tell 'im that I cain't just let 'im fuck me, like I did fer all them years. I waited too long an' lost too much. I need more now. I need . . .  
  
"Ennis, I . . . I don't think I can do what ya want me t' do."  
  
"An' how is it," he answers, his mouth soft, not smilin', "that ya think ya know what I want?"  
  
I look away, undone by the fire in his eyes. "Reckon ya want what ya always wanted."  
  
He reaches out an' touches my chin. Just a touch, light an' quick. "You been sleepin', Jack, an' even before that, you was here, where time ain't what it is out in the real world. But I ain't been where you been. I lived through every minute a them sixteen years . . . without you. An' in every one a them minutes, I'd a give my life just t' be able t' see ya one more time, t' touch ya . . . one . . . more . . . time. Ya think that I spent all that time thinkin' about just fuckin' you? Ya still think that's all it meant t' me?"  
  
I move a little closer, an' lean forward t' open the top snap a his shirt an' rub my fingers against the soft, downy curls I find there. "Cain't read yer mind, Cowboy," I whisper.  
  
He takes my hand and brings it to his mouth an' kisses each finger, slow an' soft. "Don't want a fuck ya, Jack. Don't want a have sex, or git a blow job, or git my rocks off, or git lucky. What I want is . . ."  
  
Dark eyes, with glints of gold like dancin' sunbeams, look up at me, swallow me an' I can finally see a truth there that I spent my whole life lookin' for. "I want you t' make love t' me. To take me an' claim me an' do whatever ya have t' do so you know that I'm yours - that I was always yours, even when I was too big a fool t' admit it."  
  
He reaches for me, an' pulls me down t' lay against 'im, an' I realize that I'm nervous, that I'm not sure I can be what he needs me t' be. If everything that's happened here is real an' not just some crazy-ass dream I've let myself buy into, then it's been sixteen years since I've had any reason t' check out the old equipment, an' the truth is that nothin' much seems t' be sittin' up an' takin' notice . . . down there. An' I remember how that would happen sometimes, in the bed I shared with Lureen, an' how her face'd go all Cosmo-Girl understandin' when it did, an' she'd give me a sweet, sympathetic smile an' tell me it was OK, cause all guys suffered from 'performance anxiety' sometimes. I never had th' heart t' tell her it had a lot more t' do with lack a interest than any worry about gettin' it up.  
  
Course she was also purty damned persistant in gettin' what she wanted, and that woman had her some mighty talented hands, so it wasn't often that I didn't finally manage t' rise t' the occasion.  
  
But it ain't never happened before when th' feast laid out in front a me, warm an' willin' an' invitin' me t' eat my fill, is Ennis Del Mar, an' I cain't help but wonder. What if . . .  
  
Then I feel his mouth against me, and hear the words he's not quite sayin' out loud. "It's all right, Darlin'. It's always gonna be all right."  
  
An', jus' like that, twixt one heartbeat an' the next, I feel the joy an' the hope fill me, an' I believe. I know that this might not be heaven, that there might not be such a thing as paradise, but this - here, in this moment - is all I'll ever need.  
  
I lean forward, bracin' myself on one arm, an' touch my mouth to his, soft, barely there, tastin', nibblin', rememberin' first times an' last times. While my fingers move t' pull his shirt open, my lips move down to nuzzle at that firm jawline that I've always loved, and then further down, into the hollows of his throat, golden stubble raspin' against my skin. An' I feel his hands move up to thrust his fingers into my hair, but I shake my head.

 

"Don't move," I whisper. "Please, let me . . ."  
  
I feel his smile, an' the tenderness of his touch as he allows his hands to fall back to his sides an' he goes perfectly still. I lift my head just enough to see, to wallow in the love that's shinin' in his eyes.  
  
Time to move on.  
  
In my mind, I know that the movement in his chest ain't really breathin', but it don't matter cause I can also feel a heartbeat that ain't really there. Real or not, when I shift down, an' move my mouth t' cover one nipple while my fingers find the other, I feel him shudder an' hear the hiss of caught breath, and know that he's fightin' not t' moan. So I use teeth an' lips an' tongue to make sure that he cain't resist, and the rough grindin' sound that rises from his throat is the sound I want a hear at least once every day fer as long as I'm able t'hear anything at all.  
  
"Jack," he gasps. "Jack, please. I don't think I can . . ."  
  
"Shhh!" I answer, movin' my lips against skin that smells exactly as it oughta, exactly as I remember it - sunshine on mountain meadows, the buttery scent a old leather, a bit a musk, an' a touch of clover, an' something else that's just Ennis. "Gotta go slow, Cowboy. Ain't gonna last long if I don't."  
  
He shifts slightly, and I can feel that he's smilin' down at me. "I think," (a quick hiss as I bite down on the nub of his nipple, just enough t' sting) "we got eternity, Darlin'. Don't gotta make it last forever."  
  
But I won't - can't - make myself hurry. For too long, this feeling, this body, was jus' something I could only dredge up from faded memories, an' I need a savor the rebirth of all that was so precious to me when I was young an' alive. I move further down, kissin' an' tastin an' allowing myself a little moan as I feel the sudden swellin' in my groin. But I still won't hurry, won't deny myself the pleasure of explorin' this work a art beneath my hands.  
  
I lift up a bit, jus' enough t' unbutton his jeans an' push 'em down, an' smile t' see that he ain't changed a bit, not even after sixteen years. He still don't bother with underwear, an' his cock is still quick to fill an' more than ready fer my attention, thick an' flushed with need, springin' free and drippin' pre-cum. I pull back again, an' spend some time just starin' - caught between the sweetness of this moment an' the memory a so many others.  
  
"Jesus Christ!" I whisper. "Y'er the most beautiful thing I ever seen."  
  
The tenderness in his face is almost more than I can stand t' see as he answers. "Then ya ain't never looked up from where I'm sittin'."  
  
I feel myself grinnin' like an idiot, and pause t' stare at his face. "Okay. Who th' fuck are you, and what a you done with Ennis Del Mar? Ain't no way he'd ever say somethin' like that."  
  
Now his eyes go gentle, a little bit sad. "So I'm makin' up fer lost time. Gonna say it every time ya look at me like that, so ya don't never doubt it again."  
  
I don't' know what to say - what to do.  
  
"Somethin' else I never told ya," he continues, his eyes focused on my mouth. "How much I love t' kiss you. Was always afraid ya'd think I was goin' all girly on ya, that it wasn't fittin' fer a man t' feel that way. But I want a tell ya now. All my life, ain't never tasted nothin' sweeter than yer kisses."  
  
"Jesus!" I whisper, closin' my eyes against the feelin' that's risin' up inside me. "Y'er killin' me, Ennis."  
  
An' I suddenly have t' kiss 'im. Right now - hard an' fast an' no more pussyfootin' - an' he lies still an' lets me enjoy myself. There ain't never been nothin' as perfect as his taste, the feel of 'im, the touch of 'im.  
  
He smiles an' rubs his nose against my cheek. "Can I move now?"  
  
"No!" I can barely form a reply, but I still know what I want a do, and it requires him bein' still an' lettin' me do it.  
  
I move down again, runnin' lips an' tongue over every inch a his body, pausin' fer a while t' play with the swirl a amber curls that spirals around his navel, an' t' push my tongue in, drunk with th' taste a him an' the silky feel a his skin, young an' supple, but still bearin' the marks an' scars he brought with him from his childhood - like the crescent-shaped ridge of skin just above his left hip bone, markin' th' time his brother pushed 'im out a the hay loft and he fell on a broken water pipe, an' the purplish blotch ridin' just under his rib cage, a souvenir of damage inflicted by a bull's hoof when he wasn't quite quick enough t' get out a harm's way, when he was just eight years old.  
  
My Ennis. No mistakin' that, but without the weariness an' the wear an' tear of age. My Ennis, like he was when he first come t' me.  
  
I don't linger long; my goal is too close, an' the pressure between my legs is beginnin' t' be painful.  
  
I back off fer just a minute - just long enough t' shuck off my own clothes, an' enjoy that sound he makes when I'm naked against him.  
  
Then I move down again, an' rub the stubble on my face against his engorged cock, before openin' my mouth an' seekin' the taste that I been addicted to since I was nineteen years old. He makes a hissin' sound, like he's gaspin' fer breath, as I kiss my way down his shaft, movin' finally t' take his balls in my mouth an' roll them around with my tongue.  
  
"Jack," he whispers. "Please, I need ya now. Please."  
  
An' I realize that he's right. It's time.  
  
T' get him ready - slick an' glistenin' an' throbbin' - I swallow him to the root, til' my nose is buried in the golden fleece of his groin, an' suck - easy, at first. Then harder. When I pull away, and use tremblin' fingers t' spread th' pearly drops that are leakin' from his slit t' coat the velvet surface of his cock, he rewards me with another one a them moans, the kind that goes straight t' my pecker, with the force of an electric charge.  
  
I waste a few seconds, wonderin' if I ought a try t' git myself ready - experiencin' a little flash of fear when I realize that I ain't had nothin' pushed into my body for sixteen years, realizin' that, much as I want it, I might not be able t' take what he's got t' give. He sure ain't got no smaller in all this time.  
  
It's awkward, but I gotta try t' do what I can, t' spread my own clear slick on m' fingers an' reach back t' . . .  
  
"Stop." There ain't nothin' soft or uncertain in his voice or his manner.  
  
Then he smiles at me. "Ya don't need a do that, Darlin'."  
  
But I cain't quite convince myself that he's right. I want this time - our first time in this new world - t' be perfect, an' I just ain't sure that . . .  
  
"Unless," he goes on, once more reachin' up t' cup my chin with his palm, "ya think ya'll need t' do that t' me."  
  
I go stone cold still, not lettin' myself consider what he's sayin'. Not thinkin'.  
  
"I thought you knew what I meant," he whispers. "I want you t' make love t' me, Jack. I want you . . . inside me."  
  
An' once more, things go a little bit hinky, an' I'm not sure this is real. In fact, I'm thinkin' that this has gotta be a dream. No way would he . . . but then a memory rises in me, and slams into me like a fallin' boulder. A memory of his face, his body, the curve of his spine in the moonlight as he lifts his legs to drape 'em over broad shoulders, as he looks up into eyes that ain't mine, an' allows his body t' be used, allows somebody else t' fuck him. On the mountain. On _the_ mountain.  
  
An' I jump up an' back away, an' only barely manage not t' turn an' run.  
  
"Jack?" There's no mistakin' the pain an' the near panic in his voice, as he comes up on his knees an' stretches his hand out toward me.  
  
The hurt is so big, so strong in me, that I can barely get the words out, but I know I gotta say it. Gotta ask. Gotta know.  
  
"After I . . . was gone," I whisper, "you gave yerself t' somebody else."  
  
He closes his eyes for a moment; then he nods. "You know I did. You set it up fer me."  
  
"You loved 'im; you loved 'im enough t' let 'im do things ya was never willin' t' do with me. Does that mean that this - whatever this is between us - is jus' t' pass the time until he . . ."  
  
"Oh, Jack." I almost fall t' my knees t' hear the sadness in his voice. But I cain't back off now. I cain't settle fer not knowin'.  
  
"Is this . . ."  
  
"I loved Mike, Darlin'. Ain't no denyin' that, an' we had us a good life together."  
  
I nod, an' turn away, knowin' I won't be able t' hide the pain if I keep starin' long enough t' watch the love risin' in his eyes. I cain't go through this again, an' some ugly little voice inside me is laughin' like a fool an' claimin' that I should a known it all along, since nothin' ever come easy before. Why should I . . .  
  
I'm startled when I feel arms wrappin' around my waist, an' pullin' me back against his chest. "I did love 'im, but he never owned m' soul. That was always yers. Y'er my everything, Jack - the only thing I ever wanted, or ever will. If y'er willin', this is forever."  
  
I try t' draw a deep breath. "You sure, Ennis?"  
  
"I . . ."  
  
But I don't wait t' hear his answer. "Cause ya gotta be sure. I cain't . . . I cain't have ya again for a while, Ennis, an' then watch ya walk away. I cain't go through that . . ."  
  
He spins me around an' covers my mouth with his, an' speaks through th' kiss. "Yers, Jack. Forever - jus' like y'er mine. Ain't nothin'gonna change that - ever."  
  
The grass is soft beneath us as we sink to it, an' he settles on his back, pullin' me close so I'm arranged over him, an' usin' his knuckles t' wipe away tears I ain't quite fast enough t' hide. "Face t' face, Darlin'," he whispers. "Waited too long fer this t' miss the chance t' look into yer eyes when ya take me."  
  
He reaches down and wraps his fingers - those long, rough fingers - around my cock an' uses his thumb t' spread the pre-cum that's pourin' out a me now, as I thrust my arms beneath his knees and push forward, so that he's spread wide fer me, the pucker a his openin' glistenin' wet an' ready.  
  
I turn my head t' press my lips against his knee, an' feel his hands slide around me, to cup the globes of my ass. Then he pulls me forward, and I watch as the head of my cock nudges against that pucker, an' - even though I'm seein' it - I'm still not completely believin' it.  
  
Until I feel myself slip inside, an' he goes rigid fer jus' a second, bracin' against the pressure. But then I feel his body relax against me, an' I know that here, in this place, there ain't no pain. There's only the beauty of joinin', and then I'm easing past the first ring of muscle, an' I know that this moment - even if it turns out t' be the last one I ever have - is my own personal gateway to heaven. I push in further, an' twist a bit, an' know by the fireworks that explode in his eyes when I find the right angle an' hit that sweet, magic spot.  
  
Then I'm pushin'deeper, an' his body encloses me in liquid heat. I want a go slow. I want a stay here, in this moment, forever, but there ain't no resistin' the explosion that's pourin' fire through every vein in my body an' forcin' me t' slam deeper into his - deeper'n anyone has ever been before. An' he's pullin' me still closer, grindin' against me when I wrap my hand around his cock an' feel the throb of it, like it's pulsin' with the combined beat of our hearts, which might or might not be real, but who the hell cares anyway?  
  
We're pushin' t' get closer, t' join more perfectly. To crawl into each other and become two hearts in one flesh.  
  
I pull out only t' slam deeper, harder, an' feel myself hoverin' over a giant cliff, flyin' too high t' ever touch the ground again, soarin' - with 'im right there in my arms, surgin' up to claim my mouth with his as we fly. Up, an' up, an' spinnin' finally into th' well a infinity when my loins ignite an' I feel the sweet flow of his eruption fill my hand, an' we let ourselves go limp an' boneless to ride the plunge into paradise, just as dawn paints streaks a rose an' amber across the sky.  
  
We fall together, still joined, an' I'm filled with th' satisfaction a knowin' that nothin' will ever be the same again, for we are finally bound, flesh to flesh, heart to heart . . . soul to soul.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
I been layin' here fer a while now, jus' watchin' the mornin' rise around us an' show us somethin' we didn't expect. Or maybe we did, but were too busy doin' other stuff t' give it much thought.  
  
But it's here now, right under our noses, an' it feels so right.  
  
We're back - back to where it all began.  
  
Back to Brokeback Mountain. Somethin' shifted around us as we came together for the first time in this new place, an' took us back t' where we belong.  
  
An' it's as beautiful as I remember. Almost as beautiful as the sweet, warm body that's still wrapped up in my arms. Lord, I may not know many things, but I do know this; there ain't nothin' in the world - or beyond it - as luscious as the sight of Jack Twist's ass in the mornin' light, an' I reckon I'd be content t' spend all eternity just layin' here, holdin' him an' breathin' him an' takin' kisses as often as I need 'em.  
  
Fer havin' spent so many years apart, we ain't spent much time talkin', except fer fillin' in the important stuff. Like the fact that he's got a grandson, an' it's kind a hard t' picture cause he looks so young again. But I reckon I won't never forget the soft shine in his eyes when I told 'im about that precious baby an' how I come t' know about 'im an' his parents.  
  
I pretended not t' see the tears on his face when I gave 'im my thoughts about what a good man his son turned out t' be, an' then broke the news about Lureen dyin'. Ain't no jealousy left in me now, so I can face th' fact that he loved her too, in his own way. Course it helps that he never loved nobody else like he loves me.  
  
I look up at clouds settlin' around the mountain's peak an' hear the rush a the stream that runs by the campsite, an' figger that I could spend eternity jus' like this - with Brokeback all around me an' heaven in my arms.  
  
But Jack - as usual - has other ideas.  
  
Just as there ain't nothin' more special than the sunlight touchin' that perfect skin with glints a gold, there ain't nothin' livelier nor brighter than Jack Twist with a bee in his bonnet, an' he's got the queen mother buzzin' around in there now.  
  
On a mission is my Jack, an' I muster up a little bit a pity fer ol' Gabriel, an' think t' myself that he better have the right answers t' Jack's questions . . . or else.  
  
Jack Twist - pissed off - is another sweet sight that ain't t' be missed. Cutest thing I ever saw only that's sure as hell something I cain't say t' him.  
  
So we disentangle ourselves, but not before another bout a lovemakin', slow an' easy this time. Spring rain after th' tempest we brewed up earlier, with him lyin' back an' lookin' up at me, his eyes full a light an' wonder, as I ride that big, throbbin' cock t' th' only slice a heaven I ever want a know.  
  
We both laugh a little when we manage t' stand up; the bodies might look young an' perfect again, but that don't mean a man can't feel a little stiffness from all that vigorous exercise. I stagger a bit as I'm tryin' t' pull up my jeans, an' I notice a dark, purple mark under Jack's jaw, an' feel a silly jolt a pleasure t' see that I can still mark 'im. It don't make much sense for that love bite t' make me feel like it's a brand that makes 'im more mine, but that's sure enough how it feels. When I lean forward t' drop a quick kiss there, he gets that look in 'is eyes again - that look that I'll never get enough of, no matter how long we might have in this place. It's a look that tells me that we wasted too much time in our lives, an' we ain't gonna waste no more in whatever this place is.  
  
When we're dressed an' ready, we walk out of the campsite together, shoulders touchin', an' find that we don't have t' go very far.  
  
Gabriel's sittin' on a big slab a granite, bare feet danglin' over the stream that's swirlin' below 'im, threadin' a worm on a fishin' hook that's attached to a cane pole. I sneak a quick look at Jack an' see a flash a surprise in 'is eyes.  
  
"What ya doin'?" he asks, squattin' behind th' old man.  
  
Gabriel just looks at him fer a minute before answerin'. "I'm doin' exactly what I feel like doin', Jack. Some of us really do like t' fish, ya know. It ain't always jus' an excuse fer doin' somethin' else."  
  
But I think I know what Jack's drivin' at. "What do ya do with th' fish?"  
  
That's when he sees what we're getting' at, an' his laugh is big an' hearty. "What do ya think I do with 'em? I fry 'em up over a campfire an' eat 'em."  
  
Jack's eyes, by now, are huge, an' the old man's voice goes soft an' tender. "Jus' because ya never cared enough t' try things, don't mean they cain't be done, Jacky. Whatever ya loved out there, in what you call 'the real world', you can have here. It's still a kind a livin', ya know - the same, but different."  
  
But Jack's had enough idle conversation, an' I see th' deep flare of anger fill his eyes. "Why did you lie t' me, Gabriel?"  
  
But there ain't even a slow spark a resentment in the old man's gaze when he turns them funny colored eyes on my young lover. "Never did lie t' ya, Jack. I wouldn't do that, even if I wasn't as fond a you as I am."  
  
"You told me it was forever." I cain't hardly stand t' hear th' deep notes a loneliness an' remembered despair in that soft whisper.  
  
Gabriel nods. "An' it could a been." He turns them weird eyes on me. "Would a been, if this young fella hadn't turned out t' be smart enough t' figger it out."  
  
"But . . ."  
  
"There wasn't ever no way a knowin' that would happen, Jack." The old man goes back t' baitin' his hook. "An' it wouldn't a been fair t' give ya some kind a false hope. The only way it was right - the only way t' be sure that ya really wanted t' make that choice - was t' tell ya the worst that could happen, so yer mind'd be clear. So ya'd know what you were riskin'." He looks out across the water, an' I think, fer jus' a minute, that I see a strange wetness in his eyes. "Most who make that choice don't never git a second chance."  
  
Jack stays quiet fer a while, still mad (I can always tell) but getting' calmer by the second. "An' the twenty-nine years?"  
  
That's somethin' that's new t' me. What twenty-nine years?  
  
But Gabriel knows exactly what the question means. "Was th' truth too. That's how long he would a lasted - miserable an' alone, but alive - if ya'd done nothin' to change his life."  
  
An' I suddenly understand what he's sayin'. Twenty-nine years. I'd a spent that long, livin' in misery an' loneliness, if Jack hadn't done what he did.  
  
I cain't help but shudder t' think about it.  
  
Jack turns t' look at me, an' reads th' look in my eyes, an' - jus' like that - he's smilin' again. Never was no good at holdin' grudges or stayin' mad.  
  
Gabriel reaches back, blindly, an' lays a hand on his shoulder. "Ya got a lot a time t' catch up on, Jacky. Why don't ya take Ennis fer a ride up th' mountain."  
  
"Ride?" That's me, showin' more interest than I prob'ly should. "Ride what?"  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
So here we are, at th' place that's come t' be th' most special of all. Below us, in a clearin' where we'll set up camp later, our horses are grazin' on sweet summer grass. Horses that look an' smell an' feel like the ones we rode long ago. Reckon it don't matter none whether they're really th' same horses or jus' the same in our minds.  
  
I'm sprawled on the ground in a patch a sunshine, braced against a big slab a rock, enjoyin' th' sweet smell a the flowers that are bloomin' against the cliffside, an' the bright flickerin' reflections from the water fall, while Jack squats at the edge of the drop-off, lookin' off t' the west, watchin' the drift a storm clouds.  
  
"Reckon it might rain tonight," he says.  
  
"Does it?" I ask. "Rain, I mean?"  
  
He shrugs. "Don't know. Reckon I never had call t' notice before."  
  
"Christ, Jack," I answer with a snort. "You was here fer six years before ya . . . well, before. An' ya never noticed if it rained?"  
  
He looks down at his hands, braced against the denim stretchin' over his thighs, an' I hide a smile. Heaven 'r not, Jack Twist still knows how t' fill a pair a jeans. But then he answers me, an' the smile dies when I swallow hard t' keep from lettin' the tears rise.  
  
"Reckon I never cared enough t' notice."  
  
For a moment, neither one a us knows what t' say, how t' back away from memories of a hurt that was too big fer anyone t' be able t' handle. Then he grins. "Think I need a find me a harmonica. Gets too quiet around here."  
  
This time, the snort is plenty loud enough fer him t' notice. "Don't need no Goddamn harmonica, Jack. It's just a fuckin' noisemaker."  
  
His grin gets bigger. "I like makin' noise."  
  
"Yeah, I know ya do," I grump. "Maybe - considerin' what this place might be - ya oughta get you a harp."  
  
"Harp! I don't know how t' play no harp, Dumbass."  
  
"Ya don't know how t' play no harmonica neither, but that ain't never stopped ya from tryin'."  
  
He laughs, loud an' deep, an' I know that sound is the only music I'll ever need.  
  
When he comes an' kneels beside me, I look my fill, still amazed that he can really be here - really be mine.  
  
"Reckon we'll ever get tired a this place?" he asks, soft an' gentle as he takes my hand an' lifts it to his face.  
  
"Ain't never gonna git tired a nothin' here," I answer, lovin' the feel a his stubble against my palm.  
  
His smile goes straight t' my heart, with a bit left over t' nudge at m' groin. "Never getting' tired a each other don't mean we'll never git tired a this place. We don't have t' stay here, ya know. We could explore the world, if we wanted to. I always thought I'd like t' . . ."

  
"Don't want a explore nothin'." I don't mean t' sound so gruff, but there ain't no way a hidin' what I'm feelin'. "This place, Jack. This place is magic, fer us. It gave us everythin'. Don't want a ever . . ."  
  
But his hand reaches out t' cover my mouth, an' the look in his eyes is, for me, all I ever need of paradise. "Stop, Ennis. Jus' stop. I know ya love this place, an' our memories a this place. So do I."  
  
He leans in until his nose is rubbin' against my cheek, an' his breath is warm against my throat. "But this place ain't the magic. It never was, no matter what we might a told ourselves." His eyes open wide, and he's lookin' deep into mine, an' I feel like I can see clear down into his soul. "The magic," he whispers, "is you."  
  
He turns then, an' settles against me, his back solid an' warm against my chest. An' I wrap him in my arms an' bury my nose in the silky thickness of the hair at the nape a his neck, an' nuzzle against th' three little moles that hide just inside his hairline. I twist my head just enough t' be able t' git a glimpse a the dark lashes curlin' against his cheek as he closes his eyes, an' I sigh with pleasure, t' be once more in my favorite place, lookin' out at the world around us from my favorite viewpoint . An' I know the real truth, though I don't speak it.  
  
I know who the magic is.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 tbc

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Epilogue

**Epilogue**  
  
  
  
_And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby,_  
It helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky.  
  
Somewhere out there  
If love can see us through,  
Then we'll be together  
Somewhere out there,  
Out where dreams come true.  
  
\--- Somewhere Out There --- James Horner, Barry Mann, Cynthia Weil  
  
  
As I settle myself into the battered old rocking chair that's tucked away in the corner of my son's room, it almost seems to reach out to embrace me, its pits and lumps and hollows easily conforming to my shape, as if it remembers exactly how to soothe and comfort me, like an old friend that I've known all my life. Which is, in fact, not far from the truth, since this very same chair resided in the corner of my bedroom when I was new to the world and nestled every night into the cozy warmth of the sturdy oak crib that now cradles my baby son. Back then, of course, the tall figure who arranged himself among these distorted cushions was my own father.  
  
On this particular night, it's wearing a slightly threadbare cotton fabric that looks and feels a lot like old denim, and it's a good bet that nobody remembers what color it was originally; even my mother probably couldn't have said for sure, even though I know beyond all doubt that, on the last day of her life, she could still have recited the complete menu of what was served on the buffet table at her wedding, the color and type of flowers carried by each of her eight bridesmaids, and the cut of the suit my daddy wore. And even beyond that - the brand of jeans he was wearing the first time she ever saw him.  
  
After a minute of thought, I smile to realize that there's absolutely no doubt about the accuracy of the final part of that observation; though she might occasionally have forgotten the names of her mother's extended family members - frequently enough for some to come to resent it - Mama had never forgotten a single thing about her blue-eyed cowboy. Just as he'd never really forgotten anything about her.  
  
I close my eyes, considering the differences in their motivations; she spent more than seventeen years loving him with her whole heart, even though she'd eventually come to understand that there was a part of him that she would never be able to reach, and decided, finally, to tuck the hurt of that knowledge away beneath her tough businesswoman exterior. During that same period, he'd spent the same amount of time feeling guilty and trying to make up for the fact that he couldn't return the favor and love her as he thought she deserved to be loved. It wasn't an even exchange, of course, but it was the best he could do, and I'm still grateful for the fact that she never knew the complete truth about the nature of the nameless specter that prevented him from being able to give her all that she wanted from him.  
  
Nameless - to her, at least.  
  
With a deep sigh, in a surge of bittersweet memories, I turn to look out the window and note that it's snowing - again. It seems that it's been snowing every time I've looked out that window since the end of November, and we're now approaching the first of March.  
  
It's been a long, cold, hard winter for the Twist family of Childress, Texas.  
  
My Grandma Twist passed away in December, just a few days short of Christmas, succumbing finally to the damage wrought by a stroke she suffered back during the summer. When she died, the ground was frozen solid, of course, after weeks of winter storms, so there's been no opportunity to excavate her grave site and lay her to rest in the exact place where her son's ashes were once entombed - as she instructed. Instead, she lies now in a simple coffin - simple because my lovely, perceptive bride insisted that anything too elaborate would be an insult to the unembellished elegance she exhibited all her life - temporarily housed in a mausoleum located in the cemetery in Sundance, awaiting the day when she can return home, to be embraced by the soil that once sheltered my father. Maybe it's spiteful and small-minded of me, but I choose to ignore the fact that my grandfather also rests in that tiny plot, and I choose to believe that she does too, for the simple truth is that, no matter how much he might have blustered and insisted that the small burial ground be identified as Twist territory, it is actually the ancestral resting place of my grandmother's family, and he remains a usurper, even into eternity.  
  
Is that petty and vindictive of me? You bet it is, and I make no apologies for it. I don't know too much about what he did to my father when he was a kid, because Daddy kept most of those horror stories to himself, but my imagination fills in all the blanks with stunning clarity.  
  
I stood beside that casket and was embraced and welcomed by relatives who had known my grandmother as a young woman and my father as a child, and I discovered a strange thing about the process of grieving. Chelsea had been unable to attend with me, as she was just entering the second trimester of a troublesome pregnancy and forbidden to travel by her obstetrician, so I had made the trip alone, dealing with the kind of weather that encourages sensible people to spend winters in Mexico. As a result, I was doubly glum and disheartened when I finally arrived at the little funeral home. And in that gloomy environment, where I expected to be inundated with sadness, the people who had known my grandmother and my father in the early years of their lives took advantage of the opportunity to share the sweet memories of those lost years, creating moments of laughter between bouts of weeping. I learned about the lamb that my daddy rode when he was barely old enough to walk, and the bedraggled old blanket that he carried everywhere with him, until it was reduced to nothing but wispy rags. I learned about the thumb he sucked until he was two, and the dried beans he stuck in his ears when he was three, requiring a visit from the doctor to remove them - back when doctors still made housecalls; I learned about how he would curl up in the barn and fall asleep amidst a litter of kittens, and how he loved his mother's cherry cake and chocolate brownies and corn muffins. I learned about the way she taught herself to play piano on a broken-down old upright that belonged to her father's maiden aunt, and how she loved homemade ice cream and fresh strawberries; how she labored dawn to dusk in her little garden, to provide vegetables for the family table, and how she reacted when her only son came home - at the tender age of fourteen - falling-down drunk on home brew, swiped from a neighbor's still. And, most of all, I learned about how much she loved my daddy, and how she'd rock him to sleep at night, and teach him the words of the hymns she sang for Sunday service.  
  
It's a bit strange, I guess, to admit that I felt a little better after that, despite the solemnity of the occasion, taking a bit of comfort from learning that there were at least a few happy moments in Daddy's childhood and in the years he spent at his mother's side, that the OB (short for Old Bastard) didn't manage to ruin every hour of his young life or hers.  
  
When I came home - completely worn out from having to travel all around the country to avoid extreme winter weather - it was with a renewed sense of connection, as if I had grown closer to a part of my family history that I had never understood before, and I resolved that I would be present when the thawing of the Wyoming prairie allowed this fine, strong woman to be interred in that tiny family plot, as a memorial to her, and to the son she loved so well.  
  
When I finally made it back to Childress, Chelsea was waiting, trying very hard to conceal how miserable she was during her second pregnancy, but not succeeding very well. In bold contrast to her experiences during the months before the birth of our first child - a textbook pregnancy during which she suffered not a single adverse symptom except for "heartburn strong enough to light up the city of Houston", which she would later blame on the lush mop of black hair that Li'l Jack was born with - the second time around was making up for lost opportunities. Severe and lingering morning sickness, fluctuating blood pressure, and problems with controlling blood sugar levels have left her exhausted and frustrated with what she perceives as her own weakness, and apologetic for needing a little help in parenting and running the household. There's little logic in her aggravation; it isn't as if we can't afford domestic help. After having two novels appear on the New York Times list, _Under a Single Star_ , and its sequel, _Dynasty West_ , I have been welcomed into the inner sanctum of those most fabled storytellers - the ridiculously well compensated ranks of best-selling authors. And then there's the fact that my mother's financial legacy insures that our lives are perfectly secure, even if I had never sold a single book. Obviously, logic has little to do with her recurring funk.  
  
Still haven't figured out what I did to deserve such a sweetheart for a wife.  
  
Three weeks after my return from Wyoming, tragedy struck again, when Chelsea's older brother, a helicopter pilot, was killed in an accident in the Gulf, leaving a wife and three small children to mourn his loss. My beloved was devastated, and she's still far from recovered. My lovely lass, she of the laughing eyes and the slightly raunchy dry wit, continues to dwell deep within the shadows of mourning and is struggling to find her way back to the light. She will make it eventually; I know that. But it's tremendously hard to watch her linger in the grip of a grief that colors every breath she takes. I can only wait, and be here when she needs me.  
  
And even that hasn't been so easy either, as I had a project to complete, against all advice from my associates, even - sometimes - against my own better judgment. But, in the final analysis, I had no choice; it was just something I felt compelled to do.  
  
I sit back in the old chair, and look down at the hard-cover book in my lap - the fruit of my labors which will be released to the public on the first of the month. And, if editors and publishers and agents and other prophets of doom are to be believed, it will prove to be the kiss of death for my career.  
  
They may be right.  
  
The name of the book is _The Bullrider_. Sub-titled _, The Story of a Real Man's Man_.  
  
The life story of my father - warts and all. A novel, it's true, since I don't know all the details of the story of his real life - his life as a gay man. But the characters will be instantly recognizable to anyone who knew either one of them, and many of the occurrences related in the story are real enough, as told to me by interested observers or by either of the two protagonists over the course of time.  
  
And I can still recall every word that my professional advisors tossed my way, from the very beginning of the project.  
  
"A love story about two gay men is the kiss of death, Bobby. Professional suicide."  
  
Or:  
  
"Come on, Bob. It's not something the public wants to read about."  
  
Or - more succinctly:  
  
"Are you crazy?"  
  
I don't know if anyone will ever want to read it, although my darling Chelsea chooses to look upon it with a kind of _Field of Dreams_ mysticism, often proclaiming, "If you write it, they will come."  
  
Maybe, but I find that, ultimately, it doesn't matter; it was writing it that mattered.  
  
Because the story deserves to be told.  
  
Because it's too vital and perfect to be hidden away like a dirty secret.  
  
And, finally, because it's beautiful.  
  
It's been over a year since that last trip to Brokeback Mountain. Sometimes, I think I should go back. Maybe in early summer, as a kind of tribute. Other times - most times - it feels like such a trip might be tantamount to trespassing on sacred ground. No matter how many people might walk that mountain, in my heart I know it belongs to only two.  
  
A snuffling sound rises from the crib, and I get up to check on my baby Jack. Poor little tyke's had a bit of a rough road of his own lately. A bad chest cold that developed into bronchitis, culminating in that worst of all parental nightmares: croup. But he hasn't coughed so much today, and seems to be breathing easier, courtesy of the vaporizer that's humming away in the corner.  
  
I tuck his blanket - bright blue with appliqués of Elmo running across the top - more closely around him, and then pause to look down at him - stunned and blown away all over again by the purity of his beauty and the gut-grabbing intensity of my love for him. It seems grossly unfair that a baby just twenty-one months old should be capable of holding a couple of adults in the palms of his hands and manhandling them like globs of silly putty, but that's the truth of it. His face is slightly flushed - from the fever, no doubt - and his hair is wild, standing on end and curling in every direction, as always, and I know that if he opens his eyes, I'll be amazed - again - at the intensity of that unique shade of blue. Then I spend a moment wishing that my mom and dad could have known him. Not, of course, that he's not already spoiled enough. Still, I can close my eyes and visualize how they would have loved him, how they would have made him smile and watched him sleep; how Mama would have run up huge bills at Neiman-Marcus and Baby Gap and Toys R Us and seen to it that he lacked for nothing. And how Daddy would have lifted him up and thrown him in the air to hear him squeal and shriek with laughter, and taught him . . . but I find that I can't quite allow that image to form in my mind. It hurts too much to realize what my baby boy will never experience.  
  
I go back to my rocking chair, and settle in, but not too well. I know that, if I let myself get too comfortable, I'll nod off and sleep too deeply, and I remember my mother's lessons too well to allow that to happen: an on-duty parent doesn't sleep soundly with a croupy baby in the house. Since my dear, sweet wife is badly in need of a night of rest, here I sit, and here I remain.  
  
Still, it's cozy and warm here in his room, with its mural - hand-painted by my mega-talented Chelsea - of carousel horses and ice cream cones and circus animals and bright balloons covering one wall, and the mournful whisper of the wind just beyond the window, and I let my head fall back against a garish pillow featuring a really ugly, smiling, purple dinosaur - and find myself drifting into memories.  
  
I think about his birthday party last June, on a warm afternoon with the bright Texas sun casting long shadows across brilliant green grass, with life-size Sesame Street characters running around the back yard; with hundreds of red and yellow and green balloons, tied in bunches attached to stakes in the ground, and the giant Fun Jump that all the neighborhood kids loved, while Li'l Jack refused to venture inside, looking askance at the giant clown face grinning down from its top. Smart kid.  
  
There'd been no reservation or lack of smiles, though, after he blew out the candles on his giant birthday cake (with a little help from his dad) and was then presented with a miniature of the huge chocolate confection and a spoon.  
  
It only took a few seconds for him to figure out what was expected of him, with a little demonstration from his old man, and we proceeded to make a huge mess together, both winding up happily smeared with chocolate from hairline to collar.  
  
Birthdays. I hope every one he ever has is as special as the first.  
  
Like . . .  
  
_It rained all day the day I turned six. Really rained, coming down in sheets and buckets. In fact, about the only good thing that could be said about the weather that day was that it didn't snow, even though it felt cold enough._  
  
_As the appointed time for my birthday party drew closer, Mama spent a few minutes standing at the French doors by the patio and looking as if she'd like to tell God a thing or two for messing up her careful planning. But, in the end, she chose to look on the bright side (that being the fact that there'd been no flooding - yet) and adapt._  
  
_The house was certainly big enough, and the family room was pretty much kid-proof since she'd figured out that she could either have her House Beautiful ambiance in that room, with delicate fabrics and lots of elegant crystal and expensive porcelain and artistic clutter, or she could have a normal little boy, with all the energy and curiosity and exuberance of an active, healthy child. No way could she have both._  
  
_She chose me, although I sometimes wondered if it might have been a close call. Anyway, though most of the rest of the house was decorated according to her exquisite (and expensive) taste, the family room, kitchen, breakfast area, Daddy's study, and my room, of course, were where we really lived. Where Daddy could sprawl out on the couch for a nap and prop his booted feet on the coffee table without having to endure a lecture on how not to damage a country French antique; where we could collapse on the floor and wrestle and roll around without worrying about smashing her Lladro figurines; where we could watch football games on the big built-in television and jump up and dance around when the Cowboys or the Longhorns worked their magic, without having to agonize over whether we might spill Daddy's beer or my soda; where a toddler might - on a sudden, uncontrollable impulse - decide to decorate a blank space on the wall with a bit of Crayola-inspired modern art and not have to listen to a tirade about ruining raw silk wall coverings. I don't think Mama ever had much appreciation for my artistic efforts, but even then, at age six, I had noticed that there was one of my masterpieces - a colorful scrawl of squiggles and arcs that meant absolutely nothing - which remained unerased, almost - but not quite - ignored in its cozy niche behind the door to my father's study._  
  
_Eventually, it would become just another part of the only home I'd ever know._  
  
_Unremarkable . . . but not really._  
  
_But there was, of course, no impromptu artwork that day; that day, after concluding that there was no point in crying over spilt milk (or endless rain) Mama used her formidable managerial skills, organizing my dad and her parents and the household staff and the extra helpers she'd hired for the occasion into teams with a common goal: preparing for the arrival of thirty screaming kids and their parents and making sure there were plenty of distractions and attractions to keep said kids from spreading out and wrecking the rest of the house. It was an impressive effort._  
  
_I, however, remained unimpressed._  
  
_I sat there in my little chair - a miniature wooden rocker by the window - and watched the rearrangement of the house: the careful placement of decorations featuring the characters from The Jungle Book, the removal of objects that might trip up little feet or tempt little fingers, the inflation and arrangement of bright balloons, the stacking of gaily wrapped boxes with big fancy bows. I watched it all; then I watched the rain, and felt the sadness rising inside me - and felt guilty for not being happy and excited._  
  
_When my daddy knelt beside me, I knew that he'd seen the tears I'd tried so hard to hide and I had to smile. Once in a while, I was able to keep Mama from seeing what I didn't want her to see, but Daddy always saw through me._  
  
_"Hey, Bud," he said softly, barely audible even though he was only inches away. "What's a matter?"_  
  
_"Nothin'." I continued to stare out the window, determined not to look at him._  
  
_That, of course, worked about as well as ignoring him completely would have, which is to say not at all. He touched his fingers to my chin, and pressed just enough to make me turn to face him. "Must be a mighty big nothin', to cause that sad face."_  
  
_The tears - as tears always do at the worst possible moment - spilled over and ran down my cheek and over the back of his hand. "Come on, Bud. What's wrong?"_  
  
_But I shook my head. "It's just stupid," I answered finally, swallowing around the lump in my throat._  
  
_He, of course, was not having any of that excuse. "Ain't nothin' stupid if it makes ya feel like this," he replied, and I understood that he wasn't going to just drop the subject and let me hang on to my stubborn silence._  
  
_"It's just . . ." I took a deep breath, before letting it all out in one big gasp. "There was s'posed a be ponies, and there cain't be ponies in the house, and I cain't go out in the rain, and I . . . " More tears swelled as I saw something flare in his eyes when I fell silent. After a moment, when I couldn't face him any more, I looked down at my own hands, clinched tight in my lap, and muttered, "Told ya it was stupid."_  
  
_When he leaned forward and dropped a quick kiss on my forehead, I felt like a big, old turd for making him feel bad, and then I felt ashamed cause I knew I wasn't s'posed to use language like that, even if it was only in my mind and even though both my parents might occasionally slip up and use the same words._  
  
_"You just wait right here," he whispered, "and it ain't the least bit stupid._ "  
  
_The guests were already beginning to arrive by that time, and Mama was staring daggers at me cause I hadn't gotten out of my chair to go make nice with my friends. But I still sat unmoving, not quite able to shake off my bad mood, not quite able to muster up any enthusiasm for opening presents and eating cake and ice cream and tryin' to pin the fuckin' tale on the fuckin' donkey. And then my face went fiery red, because if 'big, old turd' was bad, then 'fuckin' was off the charts, and would a earned me a swat on the butt and a quick trip into Time Out and, even worse, that look of disappointment on my mother's face._  
  
_Daddy had disappeared somewhere - maybe into his study, where he sometimes hid out when he just wasn't up to dealing with the role that Childress society expected him to play - and I sighed, knowing that I had no choice but to face Mama's music. The party was here; the guests were here, and I had to be 'here' too._  
  
_I stood up, just in time to see my dad come down the stairs, his arms full of something made of bright yellow plastic. I knew immediately what it was, of course, but I still didn't dare to believe._  
  
_At the same moment, a tall man, a stranger dressed in jeans and boots and dark cowboy hat stepped in through the patio doors, carefully wiping his feet on the rag placed there for just that purpose._  
  
_"Everything ready, Chuck?" called my father, moving toward me and shaking out the yellow plastic._  
  
_The stranger nodded. "Still think y'er crazy, but yeah. All ready."_  
  
_When Daddy got to me, and knelt down to put the small poncho over my head, Mama was right there, hands on hips and wearing her infamous no-nonsense expression. "Jack, what in the hell are ya . . ."_  
  
_Daddy stood up, his smile going from indulgent (toward me) to insolent (toward her)_.  
  
_"Givin' him the only present he really wants," he said firmly, not bothering to look at Mama's face._  
  
_"Jack, ya cain't just . . ."_  
  
_Then he did look at her, and she shut up . . . fast. He didn't often get that look in his eyes, the look that said that the person in front of him could either come along with him for the ride - or get out of his way._  
  
_When we were all ready and walked toward the doorway, I could hear my grandfather muttering behind us, not really bothering to keep his voice down, so words like "rodeo piss-ant" and "stupid ass" came through loud and clear. My daddy just smiled . . . and kept moving._  
  
_It poured - and poured - and then poured harder. All the neighborhood kids and the children of my parents' social and business acquaintances and their parents enjoyed the hospitality of the house, eating chocolate cake and ice cream and drinking gallons of punch (for the kids) and bottles of sangria (for the parents), and my presents remained untouched, waiting for me to come to my senses and pay attention._  
  
_But me and Daddy, wrapped up in bright yellow ponchos, ignored the rain and the thunder and the cold as he lead me around the yard, circuit after circuit, my skinny butt settled snugly into a miniature saddle strapped tight to a little pinto pony. Luckily, the pony had endured lots of birthday parties with lots of little kids who had no idea how to ride and spent most of their time screaming out their excitement and kicking the pony's sides as if they wanted to take off at a dead gallop. Comparatively speaking, a little stormy weather was just a walk in the park._  
  
_When I finally decided I'd had enough, I was soaked through (and so was Daddy) and so tired that I could barely keep my eyes open when he carried me inside and upstairs, where he peeled off my wet clothes and dressed me in pajamas before tucking me into my bed._  
  
_The presents, the cake - everything that was supposed to make the day special for me - had to wait for the next morning._  
  
_It was the best birthday I ever had._  
  
_I was still lost in the memory of the look in my mother's eyes when I sat at the breakfast table early the following day and chattered about the pony and the rain and how much fun I'd had. Of course, she was still a little perturbed when I first came downstairs, dragging my daddy behind me, still yawning and scratching his belly under an oversized t-shirt - but her bad mood couldn't stand up long under my enthusiasm. I still remember the affection and indulgence that flared in her eyes when she finally decided to let go her irritation and look straight at me. Then she looked up at my dad, reacting to the crooked grin he was wearing. She was truly beautiful in that moment, love shining pure and steady in her eyes._  
  
When I come out of my reverie (after a particularly loud snore) I can't immediately identify the sound that roused me.  
  
It's coming from Li'l Jack's crib, but it's not coughing or sniffling or any of the sounds he's been making over the last few days.  
  
Worried now, I come to my feet, and see that he's not still wrapped up tight in his blankets, sucking on his thumb and wheezing when he can't quite breathe around the obstruction.  
  
Instead, he's standing up, his arms draped over the rails of his crib.  
  
He's not coughing.  
  
He's laughing, his eyes bright and wide open and his hair standing on end, even more so than usual, as if a playful hand had been pushed through it.  
  
I move to the side of his bed and cup his face with my palm. "Hey, Li'l Darlin'. What's goin' on?"  
  
For a few seconds, he doesn't turn to look at me; instead, he seems to be staring at something over my shoulder, something that makes him laugh again.  
  
Then he looks up at me, opens his mouth, and says one word, very clearly.  
  
"Papa."  
  
I can't quite suppress a sigh, realizing that I'm just allowing my imagination to run wild.  
  
"Come on, Bud," I murmur, leaning forward to lay him back down and tuck his blanket tight around him.  
  
"Papa." And a huge smile.  
  
I pause then, loving the sweet glow in his eyes. "Go back to sleep, Bud."  
  
And it's there, as I'm leaning over him, that I feel it.  
  
It's nothing; I tell myself that, once, twice - three times.  
  
It's nothing. Just a wisp of air from the heating system; just a stray puff of wind from some tiny crack in the window. Just . . .  
  
As soft and gentle as a remembered caress, right there on the nape of my neck. Right there, in the place where he always kissed me when I was lying snug in my own bed, and he would come in to tuck me in. Right there, in the exact spot where I always kiss my own baby.  
  
Just a hint of a touch, as if something hesitates and releases a quick breath, to stir my hair.  
  
I straighten up and look around, and, of course, there's nothing there.  
  
Nothing at all.  
  
Except when I close my eyes, and feel the warmth of that smile that always lit up my life, and watch as two figures fade back into the night, hands clasped, inseparable.  
  
I walk back to my chair and settle in for the night, knowing that nothing has really changed.  
  
Knowing that everything has changed.  
  
And smiling when I'm filled with a warm certainty, realizing that the day will come. Knowing that one day, I'll walk up to that campsite and be welcome to sit by the fire and watch its reflections in eyes just slightly bluer than my own, eyes that finally know what true happiness is.  
  
Sleep comes easy; dreams come easy, as I understand that all is right with the world.  
  


____

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

____

The End

____

 

____


End file.
